


my heart is a cemetery

by lohedrkn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lohedrkn/pseuds/lohedrkn
Summary: The Winter Soldier escapes HYDRA’s grip 5 years before Captain America is defrosted.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 34
Kudos: 64





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my drafts for an embarrassingly long time so im posting it regardless of the quality lol.  
> russian translations in the end notes.
> 
> anygay enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction of sorts: the first years in New York and the beginning of the end.

**MY HEART IS A CEMETERY,**

**filled with the corpses of what was and what could have been**

Chapter 1:

_my brain is melting around the barrel of the gun and i am no longer whole and it hurts and i am afraid_

2010

It’s been four years. Bucky’s gotten used to living now. He’s not good, he's not even better, but he’s _moving_ and that’s all that matters. He remembers. Sometimes slowly, one piece at a time, sometimes a lot at once. And it hurts. It hurts.

He knows when he was born (March 10, 1917), knows the names of his family members (Winifred, George, Rebecca), knows he’s been in love with Steve Rogers since he was fifteen years old, knows he fought in Azzano and survived, knows he fell from the train, and since he’s done the math, knows he was HYDRA’s plaything for nearly sixty years. He knows the only reason he’s alive right now is, in fact, HYDRA.

There are still many blank spaces in his mind, fuzzy and vague, almost there but not quite. He has a hard time discerning reality from fiction, memories from dreams, Bucky’s thoughts from the thoughts of the Soldier. Some things he’s probably never going to get back. He can live with that. He can live with the weight of his crimes, and with his victims’ faces showing up in his brain uninvited. That’s what he keeps telling himself at least.

Being alive hurts, he’s noticed. When he was the Soldier, pain was always a temporary sensation: he could escape it, ignore it, be frozen to the bone, and feel nothing. He’d never anticipated the ache in his chest to be permanent, for the pressure against his heart, right under his ribcage, to stay. But it’s not letting up, if anything, it’s only getting worse the longer he lives. Sometimes he physically has to squeeze his hands around himself real tight just to not fall apart at the seams.

He doesn’t sleep. If he does, it’s four hours at a time at most. It takes a toll on his already fucked up health, because even though he’s a supersoldier, he’s no longer wired to HYDRA feeding machines, he's no longer under anyone’s control. He's weak, his cybernetic arm hurting anytime he moves it, shoulder numb with too much too fast. He tries to sleep, he really does. He can’t, though. Not when he’s been programmed to keep watch, to always be looking over his shoulder. Not when everything he sees when he closes his eyes are his handlers’ grim smiles alternating with his victims’ blood and guts all over the smudged walls of his and Steve's Brooklyn apartment.

+

Bucky is crazy good with knives. It’s one of the good things that's come with being the Winter Soldier. Besides, obviously, his extensive knife collection no one but his landlord knows about. That motherfucker has definitely sneaked into Bucky’s apartment at least once. But back to the favors his knife-handling skills have done him. It’s the main reason he can now add “cook” to his technically non-existent resume, right next to sergeant, sniper and assassin. He’s been working for a while now, started two months after arriving in New York, when his head had cleared enough to realize he needed to somehow make a living because things had gotten so goddamn expensive since the last time he was here. Fuck inflation and fuck capitalism, that’s for sure.

So he’d been hired at a shady brasserie, where he’d worked for so-said envelope salary, and where he’d met his current employer Alexis Boivin, the owner of a low-key but assuredly well-loved French restaurant _Luciole_ in Park Slope. That’s where he is with his life now.

He performs efficiently. He’s everyone’s favorite, although the only, newbie roundsman in the kitchen. His coworkers are nice. There’s the owner Alexis, executive chef Amanai, sous chefs Shimizu and Taneel, chefs de partie Adrian, Demeter, Anastasia. At the register there are Lizzie and Miguel, the waiters are Cecilia, Jackie, Jun and occasionally Els.

Bucky knows all of their names. He also knows where they live, their usual hangout spots, criminal history, significant others’ workplaces. And he sure knows he shouldn’t know any of that, that it’s stalker-ish and rude of him, it’s an utter invasion of privacy, etcetera. But he needs to know. He needs to know none of them are HYDRA, that he’s safe, that he’s not going to be dragged back there.

He’s been free for four years. And he's well aware that it’s quite hypocritical of him to keep himself safe, considering that he’d die any day, with pleasure, but the thing is, he’s not willing to go back to being the Soldier. He’s done enough harm.

He’s running from the inevitable; somehow and sometime they’re going to get him back, force him to serve the organization again, but he’s decided the later the better. He’s also decided that he won’t live long enough to see that happen.

He’s been thinking about that a lot, these days. Committing suicide. Slicing his own wrist, putting a barrel into his mouth. A noose and a stool. Swimming out to the sea, stuffed full of sedatives.

There aren’t many ways a supersoldier can die, so he’s been getting scarily creative with the ways he could do it, but there’s always that one foolproof method of a gunshot, and the comforting knowledge that he can put himself down is one of the reasons he always keeps his revolver near.

Back in the day, he’d seen it once in a while, how men did this to themselves. Old Jameson from his first training unit pressed a gun to his temple, begging for forgiveness, and the walls smeared bright red that night. A queer soldier named Griffin from the 107th ran across the burning fields towards the Germans, clutching his dead lover’s locket into his fist. Bucky saw how he went down.

He’d always thought _poor bastards_.

Now, no longer with nothing to live for, finally, after all these years, he understands.

+

Alexis might’ve given Bucky a job but that doesn't mean Bucky ever expects anything more from her. He certainly doesn't expect to become her almost-friend along the way. It starts with Alexis, on the days she's in the restaurant, dragging him out of the kitchen during her lunch break, unless he obviously has something to do, which, most of the time, he doesn't (talk about efficiency). She sits him down on the steps of the back entrance and eats the food they’ve fucked up that morning or her own lunch, and asks questions. Bucky doesn't answer the majority of them honestly, or at all (“So, where do you live?” “Queens.”). But there are some questions that make him want to smile. He doesn't, for obvious reasons, but he wants to (“What’s your opinion on the hot chocolate across the street?” “Why would you even want to know something like that?” “Why not?” Just for the record – Bucky loves that damn hot chocolate). Somewhere down the line the newbie _patissier_ Adrian Jones takes Alexis’ place when she isn't there to sit with Bucky. By now it’s tradition.

It’s not like the others don’t like Bucky, they do. But simply put, he’s scary and mysterious. A silent man with a blank face, a dead stare, a left arm always covered by a glove, on his feet 14 hours a day every day if necessary, handling scorching utensils, is not exactly the kind of a man someone would want to casually chat up, especially when he’s got a knife in one hand and a meat tenderizer in the other.

After working in the restaurant for six months, Bucky has become an essential part of the team. He’s the one people in need of a helping hand turn to, he’s in on the jokes between the staff, and everyone knows his _souffle_ is to die for.

Outside of his very busy work life everything’s still new for him. He’s now able to almost function like a proper human being, but not quite. He spends a good half of his days completely out of it, so overwhelmed he doesn’t notice anything, working on autopilot.

He gets flashbacks. They scare him, especially when he’s not alone. He’s afraid of being alone and not being alone enough. He jumps at every single creak of wood, the blaring of sirens in the dead of night. He keeps a knife at hand, always (and a gun, for good measure).

His memories are in shambles. Just being in Brooklyn fucks with his head. He gets this overwhelming feeling of _it’s all wrong_ sometimes, just walking around, and most of the time he doesn’t even know what’s wrong, he just knows that _something_ is.

Back when he was in Vermont, he’d thought he regained the majority of his memories, but coming back to the place he’d once called his home has really changed things. The nightmares he’d only had three nights out of seven have returned in full force, and so has the absolute terror of being stuck in crowded places and accidentally missing a HYDRA goon because there were just so many people.

He’d come back to New York with the thought of belonging somewhere, finding comfort in the familiarity of the city. It’s his home after all. He was wrong. And that realization brings him to his knees, grief twisting deep in his gut. He no longer belongs here, he can’t possibly seek comfort in places that _Bucky_ once did. He isn’t Bucky anymore, just half of his body and a few memories. He isn’t Bucky Barnes.

2011

Bucky no longer keeps track of the days gone by. He used to be adamant about doing that when he first returned to the city, making sure he always knew where and when he was, already having lost nearly 60 years of his life to a vicious assassin, but he can’t find it in himself to care anymore.

It might be because he’s back, the city lights not letting him sleep at night, the tiny windows doing nothing to conceal the uncomfortably radiant buzz on the other side of the glass. He likes to blame the city for his sleeplessness instead of faulting the monstrous creations of his own brain. He’s awake for too many hours at a time to keep counting them.

New York is louder than it was back in the ‘30s. Everything’s so damn raucous, so damn hurried. He can’t stand it. Rationally, he knows he won’t ever be able to leave, go back to Vermont, or anywhere he was before that, that’d feel too much like giving up. He wants this, wants to finally feel at home. And it should feel like home but it _doesn’t._ It feels foreign and painful, so completely alien. The thought brings bile to his throat, that New York’s not his home anymore, hasn’t been since he was shipped out in 1943, everything he’s ever known lost to him.

Bucky rests his forehead against the windowpane and tells himself to breathe. In for seven seconds, hold for ten, out for ten. These little breathing exercises help. A tiny bit. He’s been doing them a lot nonetheless. Alexis suggested it a while back, when he was doubled over against a wall, everything around him too loud and too overwhelming. When he got up, ready to fuck off forever, Alexis came to him and asked in the gentlest voice Bucky had heard in a long time, if he was okay. He said yes. She smiled sadly and, surprisingly, didn’t fire him.

Moments like these accompany him everywhere nowadays. Moments when he’s vulnerable, his brain slowly killing him, forcing him to his knees, willing him to give up. In these semi-oft moments he misses being wiped. He misses the familiar burn of the machine, the unbearable pain of letting HYDRA take him apart and then stitch him back together all wrong. He misses not being able to feel anything except the ghost of the stinging cold under his skin he never managed to banish, and the dull pain in his shoulder.

And so he sits there, on the worn out mattress on the creaky floor, legs akimbo, the boy from Brooklyn, the former sergeant of the 107th Regiment and the sniper of Howling Commandos, the Winter Soldier, wishing he’d died when he was supposed to.

+

“Oh, shit. Fuck. Hey, man, you okay? I’m so sorry,” is the first thing Sam Wilson ever says to Bucky Barnes.

Bucky’s head snaps up, hands clenched into fists against the hardwood floor, half of his uniform soaked through with scorching soup. The soup he literally fucking made.

It’s his fault, he knows. He shouldn’t be here. He was distracted, staring out the window and moving forward, eyes glued to someone out there he thought he recognized. He’s usually not that careless. He lets his eyes wander, peering outside, almost hopeful, but it’s just Bucky’s luck that the person with an awfully familiar stance is long gone already if they were there in the first place at all.

Bucky turns to the man then, face betraying none of his inner disbelief and irrational anger, and stares the stranger down. Usually people avoid interacting with him, even if they just accidentally spilled their soup all over him. Especially when they did. No one wants to talk to a man with dead eyes, or on these rare instances he’s not strong enough to force his feelings down – half-crazed ones, and an unsettling vibe about him. It’s like they know and it keeps them away. But the stranger doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t look uncomfortable for even a second, just worried and apologetic.

He wants to tell the stranger that yes, he’s okay, but also no, he’s not okay, he’s never been okay and he never will be.

“Man, seriously. You good?”

No, he’s not. There was someone he knew and now they’re gone and now the whole restaurant is silently staring at Bucky because he’s a fucking creep who’s aimlessly wandering around his workplace during working hours when he should be in the kitchen. That’s why he refused being a waiter in the first place, to keep himself out of sight.

And now he’s right there, out in the open, for anyone to see.

Blame his brain. Blame his inability to let the past that’s not really his anymore, go.

Bucky starts breathing again and his voice comes out rough, clipped. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? Shit, I’m so, so sorry.”

Bucky snaps his eyes away from the stranger and pushes past him. “I said I’m fine.”

The stranger offers a hand to help Bucky up. Then stops, just for a moment, but Bucky notices, since he’s hyper aware of everything around him these days, burning skin already cooling. Bucky doesn’t let the sour grin show on his face. So the man caught a sight of the metal under two layers of soaked through material, huh.

To Bucky’s surprise, the man keeps his hand open for him to take. 

He doesn’t.

“Seriously, sorry, man.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay.” He tries to bring himself to interact in a way that’s normal. Instead it comes out as forced and awkward, which it admittedly is.

The stranger looks hesitant. So does the stranger’s date, still at the table.

Bucky stands up. He doesn’t sway. Despite the gnawing need to say something more, Bucky steps away to hide to the kitchen.

+

A few days after the soup incident, the guy returns, this time alone. Bucky sees him when he slips into the dining hall of the restaurant to tell Lizzie that Alexis wants to talk to her. And he’s standing there, chatting up Lizzie, smiling.

The same man who dropped his soup all over Bucky a few days ago.

Bucky ignores his existence entirely, turning to Lizzie. “Alexis wants to talk to you,” he says, low.

“Yeah, sure. Man the counter for a sec, yeah?”

She’s gone before Bucky can even protest.

Bucky doesn’t like the counter. Quite frankly, he hates the counter. It’s too out in the open, right where everyone can see him. Everyone can shoot him.

“So, hi.” The stranger’s tone is conversational, casual.

Bucky snaps his face towards the guy, frowning.

“Hey, man, just wanted to apologize. For the soup.”

“You already did.”

“Yeah, but, well, I wanted to ask you something? If that’s okay?”

“Well, since you’re already here.”

“You a vet?”

Bucky stops and stares. He is a vet, isn’t he? He fought in the Second World War and came out alive. Not intact but alive nonetheless.

But he can’t tell the guy that, can he? He could, just for shits and giggles. “Yeah,” he breathes, “The Second World War.”

The guy snorts. “So how old are you, a hundred?”

“Almost. 94 to be exact.”

The guy laughs some more. “I’m Sam.” He doesn’t reach forward to shake Bucky’s hand.

“James.”

Sam leans against the counter. “I’m a vet too.”

“Oh?”

“Did two tours in Afghanistan. With the Air Force.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He’s read about the war in Afghanistan, googled it, seen the video material. It hits home in a way, but not entirely. New century, new war and all that, but one could also argue that war is war regardless of the time and place.

“And now you’re back for good?” he asks when the silence has dragged on for a second too long.

Sam chuckles. “Yeah. I actually run a VA therapy group down in DC. Came to check out how things are in New York for the weekend, though.”

“And how are they, then?”

Sam looks puzzled. “Shouldn’t you know?”

Fuck.

“Yeah, it’s been a long time. I’m no longer affiliated with the VA.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, um.” He can’t even excuse himself because he has no fucking clue how the VA works these days. And it looks like he doesn’t have to, because Sam either picks up on his hesitation or misses it completely.

“The VA, they give you the arm? Or support the payment?” Sam says, tone laced with caution.

Now that Bucky had prepared for. “Yes, right after I came back from Iraq.”

“So, Iraq, huh?” Sam mutters under his breath and if Bucky didn’t have superhuman hearing he definitely wouldn’t have caught that. “So what are you up to, now?” he says, louder this time.

Bucky gestures to the restaurant around them. “This.”

Sam grins and starts to say something but Lizzie cuts their conversation short.

“Hey, James, I’m back. Thank you so much,” she says, smiling brightly and flashing her perfect teeth.

“Yeah, you’re welcome, wasn’t that much of a hassle.”

She gives him another one of her sharp smiles and waves him away.

Just before he leaves for the kitchen, he turns to Sam still at the counter. “And for the record? I made that soup.”

“Oh, shit.”

+

It’s a sunny day when the aliens come. Bucky is working in the kitchen, dutifully preparing two bowls of aligot, next on his list are some cod accras.

There’s weird ruckus up front, but he ignores it, trying to steady himself, knowing it’s probably some insignificant thing, not HYDRA, not anything else dangerous. That’s what he does now: ignores the shit that sends his brain into overdrive, pointedly overlooks all things that make fear creep into his heart. It isn’t easy but he has to. Else he’d just spend his days curled up in his room but he can’t fucking afford that. Everything sets off alarm bells in his mind now; even the smallest, the most mundane stuff makes his skin crawl. He can’t let it get to him, not again.

That’s when the screaming starts.

The whole kitchen stops for a second and then Adrian’s crashing through the door, panic evident on his face.

Bucky snaps out of his thoughts, immediately on guard. Taneel precedes him with a confused, “What’s going on?”

Adrian’s out of breath. “There are some… I don’t even know. Some robot alien thingies outside, wrecking havoc. Fuck. We gotta get outta here. Shit.”

Silence. Then, a chorus of “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah. Aliens are real apparently.” Adrian grins, eyes flicking nervously between the back and the front door. “Seriously, let’s go.”

Shimizu is the first one to move. She places the fish she’s holding back into one of the refrigerators and slams it shut. “The clients?”

“The majority of them are out, Lizzie and Alexis took care of that. C’mon, people, let’s go!”

“They’re still _there?_ ”

Bucky clenches the knife into his fist. A fight. Aliens? Robots? And here he was, thinking a man his age would’ve already seen everything.

He takes two cautious steps towards the back door, following Adrian and the rest of the crew.

Shattering glass.

He’s never been the one to run away from a fight. He’s never been the one to leave people dear to him to fend for themselves. His brows draw together, pulling his face into a grimace. A split second and he’s made the decision, turning back towards the main hall.

“James, no. We need to go.”

He was never as bad as Steve when it came to obeying orders, or even thinking straight. But there was always a part of him that understood. And right now feels like a good time to channel his long dead best friend. Steve never was good at backing away from a fight.

It brings a soft smile to Bucky’s face.

He shuts his brain down.

The main room is a mess. Shards of glass litter the floor, all the windows kicked in. Tables and chairs are overturned, some broken. A couple of people are lying on the floor, motionless; Alexis and another patron are crouched under the counter, and in the middle of the room, in the midst of all of the destruction, there’s one of the alien robot thingies.

Bucky’s never seen anything like it. He was kind of expecting one of those green guys that the media portrays as aliens and this thing is anything but. Seems like the thing’s completely made of metal and a smile tugs on Bucky’s mouth at the irony. He’s got some of his own to show off, too.

The thing looks Bucky in the eye and he’s unable to summon any of his earlier fear and panic at all. This is what he was made for. This, right here. He is the Winter Soldier.

He hears Alexis scream when he charges.

This is what he was made for.

 _Он был создан, чтобы сражаться_.

Once a soldier, always a soldier, as his mother had always said about the men returning from the Great War with lifeless eyes. Bet she’d never thought her own son would end up just like that.

The alien’s more of a robot, Bucky decides, all while landing a nice punch against the creature’s metal chestplate. And okay, he is kind of hoping it will throw the robot off, but no such luck. The robot fucking hisses at him and sends him flying. The collision with the wall knocks the breath out of Bucky. He doesn’t like it when someone’s stronger than him, he doesn’t like it at all.

 _Oн известен как Зимний солдат не просто так_. 

The robot’s limb connects with Bucky’s jaw, throwing him backwards yet again. Pain erupts in his lower back. Fuck this fucking alien.

The robot’s facing Bucky, slowly closing in, so he throws himself at the thing, hooking his metal arm around one of its legs, and pulls. The robot falls backward and Bucky goes after it. They share a few punches and Bucky feels bruised already. The robot grabs onto his loose hair and yanks, ripping some of it out, and this time, Bucky lets a small whimper escape. Shit. The blood drips into his left eye.

“James!”

It’s Alexis. She throws a knife in his general direction and he catches it like a good soldier he used to be. He drives the knife into the robot’s neck and twists. It grunts and tries to throw Bucky off. He wiggles the knife around in the soft flesh under the metal plates of the creature’s neck. He brings his left arm to the plates and rips them off, clean, shoving his metal fingers almost through the robot’s neck.

It makes a noise so inhuman Bucky almost lets go. Then he gets a splash of gray slime-like blood straight to the face.

Bucky lets the alien drop, and the body hits the floor with a dull thump. The thing’s even more disgusting dead than it was alive.

He hasn’t killed anyone in five years.

“James?”

Alexis is standing, looking at him, her expression astonished until she smooths it into something even, guarded, careful.

“James?” she asks again.

Five years.

He looks at her. She looks disheveled. She looks _afraid_. Of him. She looks like she’s afraid of what he might do.

The patron under the counter peeks out, takes one look at Bucky covered in alien blood, standing next to the corpse of said alien, and slides back against the floor.

This is what he is. A killing machine. Nothing more, nothing less. Bucky’s life and body have never belonged to him. They’ve always been the property by lawless white men using him to play God. This is what they made of him and one day they will reap what they sowed.

What if the aliens are HYDRA?

He’s glad he killed the thing.

His chest is heavy, dragging him downward. He just wants to lie down. Please. He’s a murderer.

“It’s okay. I– I’m sorry.”

Alexis’ eyes stray from his face to his left arm. Bucky knows she can see it, the metal glinting in sunbeams and the tips of the blood-red star peeking from under his ripped shirt, and hear the whirring, but he doesn’t move to cover it up. She deserves to know.

“Are you okay?” is what Bucky’s not expecting.

Keeping his eyes on Alexis, he says, quiet, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Commotion from outside shatters the moment. Screaming and crying. And Bucky’s still just standing there, unable to get his shit together.

He killed someone. Doesn’t matter if it was a creature not of this Earth, he killed someone. He doesn’t understand why it makes him so uneasy, needles under his skin, prickling behind his eyes. He should be used to killing. He’s a soldier through and through. He killed in the Italian Campaign in 1944, in Dallas in 1963 and in the peaceful seaside towns of France in 1986. He’s been killing since 1943. It shouldn’t make him feel so unclean, unable to banish the weight pressing on his heart.

He knows he should go out there, help people, fight the monsters, but his limbs are stuck in cement, right fingertips as numb as the left ones. He’s tired. 

He’s scared.

Fear isn’t a foreign sensation: it’s always been there, buried deep within his rib cage, just as pain has been present since the first time he got caught in a HYDRA trap. Fear is a childhood friend, has been with Bucky for as long as he can recall, crawling up his back on the days Steve couched blood into his palm and couldn’t get up from bed, and hooking its vengeful slithering limbs around his heart when his boots were full of snow in Austria.

He used to be good at taming fear. He’d cry into his comforter, silent, having perfected the _I-am-okay_ game just to not make Steve worry. He’d push it down like he did the first time he ever looked into Arnim Zola’s gleeful eyes.

He’s been so fucking afraid his whole life. Now’s no different.

“James?”

“Alexis, you should go. It’s not safe here.” His throat is dry when he says it, words coming out as weird mumbling.

“James, you need to leave too –”

A grim smile.“I’ll be fine. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

Alexis looks a little bewildered. “What, fought aliens?”

Alright, that makes Bucky laugh. “Something in the lines of that.”

Alexis doesn’t move. “So you _are_ a vet.”

Bucky nods.

Their little exchange is interrupted by the wild-eyed patron under the counter. “Are they dead?” he asks, gesturing toward the seemingly lifeless bodies on the floor, panic evident in his voice.

Quite honestly, Bucky had already forgotten their existence, but Alexis turns with a gasp. “Shit.”

Bucky pays her no mind. There’s another alien at the doorway, metal plates glinting in the morning sun.

1953

James Barnes dies on a Monday. On the 23rd of November 1953 at 20:03, in an underground HYDRA base tunnel 58 kilometers up north from Stalingrad, Soviet Union, to be exact.

In the same room, almost three hours later, at 22:58, the same heart starts beating again.

“ _Cолдат, добро пожаловать_.”

James Barnes dies on a Monday.

2012

The second time the aliens come, it’s a shock, even more so than it was the first time. People have gotten used to the peace after the storm, and the first time it happened has become a collective lucid dream, something out of a nightmare. The majority of the damage is fixed, and what’s not has been forgotten.

Restaurant _Luciole_ was in a dire condition after the first alien attack on New York City but four months of much-needed reparations funded by Stark Industries later, it finally reopened again to the public, in a better form than ever before, and has now been accessible for three months.

The whole reparations thing brought something into Bucky’s mind he previously hadn’t had the nerve to think about. The Starks. How Howard and Maria Stark’s son Tony is now running one of the most influential companies on the planet. How Bucky killed Howard and Maria. How Tony Stark’s eyes follow him whenever he’s walking home from work, taunting him, tormenting him, reminding him of things he can’t take back.

Bucky googled the Starks once. In official records bad road conditions were the cause of the car accident that killed them, but when Bucky went a little deeper, there was a big dark question mark after the “car accident”. The official documents are partly correct. Blunt force trauma and strangulation, a car accident orchestrated by him. That’s what killed them.

It’s not something he’s ever wanted to think about. But he has to, he has to because he knew Howard, Steve knew him, and now his son is here, in the same city, a few miles away, and running from his past is impossible.

He remembers the conversation that forced him to come to terms with all of that, between Alexis and Lizzie, standing in front of _Luciole_ at 6am, getting ready to clean up the remains of the first alien attack.

“The reparations. We have no money for them. Where are we getting money for fixing this damn shithole?”

“Don’t call my restaurant a shithole, Lizzie. Stark’s paying for the reparations.”

“Stark? You mean Tony Stark? What the fuck? Why?”

“Don’t fucking question it. He said he’d pay for a good chunk of cleanup, and help restore certain places during a press conference on Monday and I signed up for the extra help. Got a call from them yesterday.”

“But why?”

“This damn restaurant is my whole life and I’m not giving up on it. And I’m also not prideful enough to pretend I don’t need help or that I have enough money. When a billionaire’s offering, you take what you can get.”

“But we’ve got a lot of billionaires. Why Tony Stark out of all of them?”

“He’s a local? I don’t know, Lizzie, and I can’t afford to say no right now.”

“Obviously.”

The name had gotten stuck in his mind.

Tony Stark. Anthony Edward Stark, 41 years old, the son of Howard and Maria Stark.

A piece of his past.

Bucky thinks about what would happen if he ever met the guy. Does he know Bucky’s the one that killed his parents? He has to know something, right? If there are records that show that the crash definitely wasn’t caused by bad road conditions, they would’ve told him, especially considering he’s a fucking billionaire. An insider.

How would he react if Bucky showed up out of the blue one day telling him he’s the reason Howard and Maria are dead?

So when the aliens show up the second time, Bucky is crouched over the cutting board, thinking about Tony Stark.

Adrian storms into the kitchen, bringing a sense of _deja vu_ with him. He looks less panicked this time around, though. “Guys? We might have an alien problem again?”

Amanai, in the middle of explaining how to cook the perfect ortolan, turns to him, almost furious, and says, “Excuse you?”

Adrian’s shoulders hunch. Everyone knows he’s got a small crush on the woman, and that he’s also afraid of her. “Um, we’re under attack again. But they’re not in Brooklyn, not yet anyway. They’re raining from the sky around Stark tower, though.”

Bucky can literally see the exasperation on Amanai’s face, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Alright, people, I think it’s time to go home. For safety’s sake.”

They pack up fast, bickering like children.

That’s what Bucky likes about them. The ease they carry themselves with, the ease they socialize with, the ease what comes with just being around them. They’ve become the people who can casually put a hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t even flinch.

He puts his knife sharpening gear away, tucks the stones into one of the cabinets, and goes to pull off his uniform.

Adrian is already there, tying his shoes. Without looking up, he says, “I cannot believe this is happening again.” When Bucky stays silent, unbuttoning his chefs whites, he continues. “Like, seriously. It’s the second fucking alien attack on New York and this hasn’t happened anywhere else. When the aliens were planning this shitshow, were they just like, “You know what, fuck New York” or whatever the hell. Unbelievable.”

Adrian’s furious huffing is kind of adorable.

“Like, I get it’s a shitty fucking city but god, can I please catch a fucking break. I had dinner plans.”

“A date?” Bucky’s long realized Adrian enjoys being asked about his life.

“Nah, just family. Uncle even flew in from England and shit.”

“Oh. That’s– that sucks.”

“Yeah, but what can you do, if the aliens want to ruin my entire week then no one’s stopping them. You think the Avengers are going to show up?”

The Avengers had appeared the last time, at the end of the first alien attack to finish them off and save humanity. Iron Man, who also coincidentally happens to be Tony Stark, Black Widow, Hulk, Hawkeye and Thor. A group of superheroes plus a big green monster and an alien king in a human form. Sounds fucking ridiculous but they did manage to clean up the first alien mess. Figures they’re going to try their luck this time too.

Bucky shrugs. “Probably.”

He folds his whites and the apron, shoves them into his bag – he’s going to have to take them to a laundromat – and puts his jacket on.

“They’re so fucking cool.”

Bucky hides his smile behind a curtain of hair. “That’s only because you’re obsessed with superheroes.”

“C’mon. Try telling me Captain America didn’t make you a superhero stan.”

Bucky’s not sure what stan means but he figures it’s probably something good. And Adrian doesn’t even know how spot on he is with that one.

“Alright, boys, I know y'all love to chatter but Christ, hurry, I need to lock up.”

Both of them whip their gazes toward the door.

Alexis is leaning against the door frame, twirling the keys around her index finger.

“Sorry, Lex.” Adrian offers an apologetic smile. “Let’s get going.”

They’re almost out of the restaurant when it happens. A deafening crash, screeching metal and a few screams cut off by dull thumps, presumably bodies falling against asphalt.

“Oh, shit. Guess they’re here.” A wry smile accompanies Adrian’s bland statement. “Beeline for my apartment?” he asks Alexis and takes off walking before she can even nod.

“James, you gonna be alright?”

Alexis knows damn well he’s going to be splendid as hell, she knows what he can do. He’s pretty sure they’re both thinking of last time – he killed four before he could stop.

“Gonna be fine.”

She smiles and opens her mouth to tease him but Adrian’s breathless and terrified “Holy _fuck_ ” stops her. They both turn towards the boy who’s standing pressed to the wall, peeking around the corner of the house.

He rounds to face them, as pale as he can get. “Well. Perhaps the problem is bigger than anticipated. Literally. I swear they looked smaller on TV.”

Oh, and they are sizable. The previous ones were only a little taller than Bucky but these motherfuckers stand at least eight feet in height and five in width. Holy fuck indeed.

“Alright, kiddos, go home,” Bucky says, voice almost inaudible over the panicked noises of Park Slope.

“James? You’re not going to fight, are you?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No, not this time. Don’t die.”

“The sentiment’s mutual.”

And so, they part ways, Bucky heading to his shitty apartment. He’s not going to take the subway because that could go very wrong with the aliens and all, but the ground is already trashed too. The roofs are his best bet.

He gets a pretty good overview of the neighborhood and, holy shit, this is way worse than Adrian made it out to be with his completely flippant tone.

There’s a literal spaceship twelve blocks south, reaching into the sky. What the fuck. They definitely did not train him for dealing with this kind of shit in the army or the HYDRA facilities.

Bucky flits over the roofs with practiced ease, having done that same thing a million times over the years. Keeping himself out of sight is something he’s used to, and good at, considering he’s a ghost story and all that. Escaping from a bad situation runs in his blood.

He glances down onto the street. The screaming has gotten worse and the aliens seem to be throwing cars around. He eyes the situation, people running around in panic and the need to help stings, but he knows he can’t. Besides, the Avengers should be showing up right about now. Or they’re already here, Bucky decides when he sees an arrow puncture an alien. He lets his stare wander and searches for the source.

That’s until something red, white and blue catches his eye.

He halts. Blinks. Once, twice, thrice. Time slows to a stop.

This is not real.

His nails dig into his palms so hard he feels blood trickle down his right wrist. Bile raises in his throat, burning. This is _wrong_.

It’s been years since he last saw that shield.

But it’s not real because it cannot possibly be Captain America in the middle of the fight, in full uniform, throwing fucking aliens around.

It’s not fucking real. It’s not.

Captain America and his shield lay under a mile of ice in the Arctic. They went down with the plane and never made it out.

He’s hallucinating, he’s daydreaming, he’s finally fucking completely lost it.

It’s not like he doesn’t see Steve everywhere he goes. Steve Rogers can be found in history books and propagandist TV shows, glorified movies of war, and banners reading CAPTAIN AMERICA WANTS YOU TO VOTE! But these reminders of him are all fabricated. They’re not real. 

More often than not, Bucky’s own memories provide the most of Steve. He sees him whenever he looks up at the apartment building they used to live in together, on the emergency exit stairs, dangling his scrawny legs and drawing the sunset. He sees Steve when he catches a glint of blond hair in the sunlight. He sees him when he looks at kids no older than fourteen picking fights with grown men at street corners, he sees him walking among loud protesters. Steve is everywhere.

But he shouldn’t be here. Because no matter how many times Steve appears to him, it’s never like this. It’s never so vivid, never slices into reality quite so vibrantly, it’s never so fucking real.

But it is the shield, he _knows that shield_ , painted vibranium completely out of place in the middle of clashing steel and aluminum.

It’s Steve’s shield.

The one he was clinging to when Bucky fell.

What the fuck is going on?

Bucky’s heart is beating out of his chest as if there’s a bird inside his rib cage. Short breaths escape, leaving him hyperventilating, lungs tight.

His head is full of muddled fragments of memories and half-delusional thoughts, he can’t fucking breathe, his vision tilting on its axis. He’s not even standing upright anymore.

Is it Steve?

The thing that vaguely surprises him is the hope. The _god, please, please let it be Steve, please_. He wants it to be Steve so desperately he’d give anything, he needs it to be Steve, through some goddamn miracle.

The guy, who might be or might not be Steve Rogers, is still fighting the aliens while Bucky has an existential crisis three stories above him. He’s throwing them around like nobody’s business, and oh, Black Widow’s there too.

Bucky keeps his eyes on Steve.

He almost moves around like he used to, but there’s a hint of awkwardness to the way he shifts, like a person who’s been away from the battlefield for a long time.

Then Steve glimpses up.

Blue eyes, Bucky notes, detached. The same ones. Familiar.

But instead of the recognizing glint he fears and so desperately anticipates, Steve looks straight through him, continuing his task of checking the surroundings without stopping, without locking his eyes into Bucky’s own.

He gasps and falls backwards.

Steve didn’t recognize him?

Steve didn’t recognize him. Steve looked him in the eye and didn’t even deign him worthy of a second glance. Did he see him at all?

The world looks like a kaleidoscope of shattered pieces, the gray skies ruthlessly spinning around him. It’s not real, it’s not real. He feels sick to his stomach, grief twisting the knife right under his heart.

Steve.

What is Steve doing here? Why?

Steve’s dead. Steve’s been dead for 67 years, or so the history books say. Bucky knows he’s dead. He made sure to know every single detail about Steve’s death a long time ago. Maybe even the very day the HYDRA goons made him listen to the radio wired to the system, created for eavesdropping on the Americans, the day he listened to Steve die. He’d screamed his throat sore, struggled against the restraints so hard his skin peeled off, wrists dripping red, cried until he couldn’t speak. After it was over, they’d left him for a while, and he could hear them laughing while he repeated a soft “Steve, Stevie” over and over again.

Doubt crawls around his neck, makes a home for itself in the back of his head. What if it isn’t Steve? What if the man down on the street is just an impostor?

What if Steve really is dead?

What if he isn’t?

+

A rooftop overlooking the East River is the last place Bucky thought he’d find himself that night. He’s got to admit the view’s spectacular. He’d missed it. Steve and he– no, he’s not going to think about Steve.

There’s a small table and a couple of chairs. And Alexis and Adrian consuming immense amounts of alcohol. Bucky’s nursing a beer but he’s not really feeling it. They’re all wrapped in scratchy blankets originating from Adrian’s shitty fourth floor apartment in the same building.

It’s been a few days since the second coming of the aliens and the big revelation that Captain America is, in fact, very alive.

Bucky’s still reeling from that.

They’re drinking their daily worries away, trying to forget that the restaurant is in fucking shambles and needs extensive repair. Again. Alexis, as the owner, is respectively on her second glass of wine, and stands up on top of the chair to make a toast. “To the return of the legend, or some shit like that. And the aliens can fuck right off.” She plops down with a pained “Ouch, fuck.”

Adrian grins, almost manic. It makes Bucky anxious, even though it shouldn’t. He knows these people, and dare he say, he’s friends with them. But he’s not used to them in a more relaxed setting, even more so _drunk_ , they usually go their separate ways after work.

“To celebrate I want to tell you a secret,” Adrian says, chest puffing. “My grandpa fought in the second world war. Alongside Captain motherfucking America himself.”

“What?” Alexis snorts, then erupts into full-body laughter. “No fucking way.”

“As much as my grandfather told me, and he said he was quite close to him– and. You will not fucking believe this, let me tell you. I’ve got more dirt on Captain America.”

Alexis leans in, suddenly interested. Bucky can’t feel his face.

“Apparently Captain America is, or at least was, definitely queer.”

Alexis whistles, low and appreciative, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky feels cold, fingers splitting skin in his palms.

Adrian continues, undisturbed. “Yeah, he told me a lot about it actually. It’s the kind of thing I shouldn’t know but he told me anyway, because I think he thought that if he’d died without ever telling someone, he’d somehow failed Cap? Like carrying on his story, legacy, or whatever. So when I came out as trans, I was super scared about his reaction because you know, he was old. But then he was super okay with it? And called me to the other room and told me about his teammates during the war.”

“Teammates?” Bucky’s voice is barely there, almost swept away with the wind. His throat hurts. He isn’t sure whether it means he’s going to cry or puke.

Adrian stares at Bucky, eyes gleaming in the artificial light of Brooklyn, then puffs his cheeks and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “Yeah. Apparently my grandpa was in some elite combat unit or something with Captain America and his lover. Was close to them, too, like, my grandpa was friends with Captain America? It sounds fucking wild, I know.”

Alexis’ eyebrow has now reached her hairline. “Let’s say your grandpa’s legit. It’s not exactly the mainstream narrative, is it?”

“Oh no, it’s insider information. The current narrative of Captain America was created by the government, and c’mon. Queer Captain America? Who would ever want _that_? It was taboo back then and even nowadays, you bring up the slightest possibility of our dear, sweet, lovely national icon being queer, the best case scenario is that you get a few dirty looks, worst case scenario they leave you black and blue. Not exactly a good look. It’s not the kinda thing you can just– put out there, you know. Which is fucked up.”

Bucky’s still sitting frozen, not saying anything and it’s hard to swallow. Everything feels foreign, everything’s spinning around him. “What’s your grandfather’s name?” he manages to croak out.

“Gabriel.”

And for a moment, Bucky’s head stops spinning, all of his thoughts coming to a full stop. Gabriel Jones.

Gabe.

Alexis lets her head fall back and looks at him. “You okay, James?”

Bucky nods, fingertips numb. Gabe, Gabe, Gabe, Gabe.

“If you say so.” Her gaze doesn’t lose the worried edge. “But, Adrian, that story’s kind of inconsistent. The only elite combat unit Captain America was a part of was the Howling Commandos, wasn’t it? And all of the members have been accounted for? Right? God, I don’t know, it’s been years since my Captain America phase.”

“I mean, technically yes, but. Here’s the but. A few of them went MIA. And it’s their official status ‘til this day. My point is, my grandpa was one of them. Said he got outta there after Cap’s death and apparently Carter helped him or something, and he decided he didn’t wanna fight anymore, changed his name and stayed in England. That’s what he’s told me anyway. Might be an old man’s thirst for adventure, making shit up but honestly, I don’t think so.”

“What about Cap being queer, though?”

“Oh, yeah, well that was more like an implication. That the love story of the ages he had with Carter was utter bullshit. Apparently the dudebros’ straight icon had a thing with his sniper.”

They hadn't had a _thing_. Bucky had been in love with Steve since he was fifteen.

“Now _that’s_ the kinda shit you don’t get to read from history books. What about his sniper?”

“I’m telling you, they had a thing! They were in love!”

Instead of smiling, Alexis’ face scrunches up. “God, that must’ve sucked.”

It did.

Adrian’s bright eyes dull, he bites his lip, looking down at his bony fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. “Yeah.”

“It’s bad today, bet it was worse back then.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Grandpa said it was how they looked at each other. He said it was like one of his other mates looked at his wife of five years. And they slept together.”

Now that brings a flashback Bucky isn’t anticipating. Steve and he, in pretense of being platonic, standing chest to chest, Steve’s both arms around his waist, Bucky’s face pressed into Steve’s neck. He smelled like fire and ashes, tasted like salt and tears.

Suddenly, the blanket’s too scratchy, too restrictive around him, and yet, not heavy enough.

In for seven seconds, hold for ten, out for ten. It’s okay, it’s okay.

It was the night Steve brought them back from the HYDRA base. They put up camp in the woods and Steve had pulled him in, so, so close against his chest, like he had wanted to crush the breath out of Bucky, and just held on. And Bucky had let him, uncaring of the eyes around them, uncaring that he didn’t really fit into Steve’s arms like he used to, uncaring because fuck it, it was Steve and he loved him, he loved him, and they were at war, for fuck’s sake, and he might never see him again. Because they’d almost fucking died barely hours before.

Steve had pressed his entire face into Bucky’s dirty, burnt hair and just stayed there for a while. He’d kissed the top of his head, too, real gently, and then retracted himself to whisper a soft, watery “Hi”.

They’d gone to sleep next to each other, a little familiarity in a place where so little was possible, hands brushing, and he’d woken up to Steve’s entire being protectively wrapped around him.

He’d been so relieved, almost happy because Steve was there, with him, and he was okay. In a different, foreign body, yes, but he was there with Bucky nonetheless.

And now? There’s a knife in his chest and it’s twisting itself right under his lungs.

Completely unconsciously, Bucky’s gotten up and walked to the edge of the roof. His right palm is dripping blood. 

Captain America is back and he doesn’t know what to do.

“James?”

He doesn’t turn, a lump in his throat, the corners of his eyes burning.

He needs to go see Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Он был создан, чтобы сражаться. - He was created to fight.
> 
> Oн известен как Зимний солдат не просто так. - He is known as the Winter Soldier for a reason.
> 
> Cолдат, добро пожаловать. - Welcome, soldier.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of Bucky’s past alternating with his ongoing crisis about the whole Steve situation (+ a tiny bit of what's to come).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen, this is where the timeline gets extra fucky so beware lmao 
> 
> additional tws: in the end of the first scene bucky cuts his own wrist, & there r references to eating issues 
> 
> translations in end notes

**MY HEART IS A CEMETERY,**

**filled with the corpses of what was and what could have been**

Chapter 2: 

_i have no heart, only fear, i won’t live to see the sunrise_

2006

It feels like his handler has gotten a little too comfortable as of late.

Sending him to a mission after being wiped thrice in two days is a bad idea. Even his own fuzzy brain knows that, and if there’s one more thing he knows, it’s that he shouldn’t know when his handlers are making a mistake, not of that sort.

He was created to follow orders, he is a machine, he doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t feel anything.

Except that he does. He does, and he knows that much because his brain is fucking killing him.

It’s a relatively easy mission in Buenos Aires: prep, get into position, shoot, get out. Like sex. He doesn’t know where that thought came from.

He is on the roof. The sun is merciless and his whole shirt is drenched in sweat.

He waits. And waits.

Sweat drips into his eye.

He blinks. Twice.

Six hundred sixty six. Six hundred sixty seven. Six hundred sixty eight.

They’re late.

He’s no longer willing to wait. He needs to go to them.

But he doesn’t want to. His head hurts and he’s so, so tired.

So tired.

His eyesight is rapidly failing him.

He’ll just lie down, just for a second.

He opens his eyes to someone bending over him, screaming. It’s a language he knows but he can’t understand the words, can’t decipher the message, his brain doesn’t fucking work.

So instead of answering, he does the next best thing and knocks the guy out cold, but not before the fucker fucking electrocutes him. Motherfucker.

The pain spreads from his left arm to the rest of his body. It makes him even dizzier than he already is, dark spots appearing in his field of vision. He knocks the rifle stand and the Zastava over and falls after them. The barrel catches in one of the straps of his vest. He tries to get up and stagger towards the hatch in the roof but stumbles over the unconscious guy’s body and almost falls again.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He drags the hatch door open and slides himself down the ladder.

He’s so tired. Bucky’s so damn tired. The thought startles him. Who the hell is Bucky?

He’s unable to keep himself upwards any longer and thus, finds cover behind the couch in the room and curls up there.

Something’s wrong with him.

He can’t feel his left arm, which is concerning because the pain in his left arm ever only goes away when it’s overpowered by the hurt of being wiped.

He’s going to die.

In a few minutes that could just as well be hours, he gets up again, slow and pained.

He doesn’t want to go back to his handlers. They’re coming for him, he can feel it. He has to get out of here. Now.

He slips a knife out of his boot, pulls his right sleeve up and slices open his wrist where there’s a tracker under his skin. He leaves it between the cushions of the couch and cleans up the blood.

Then he leaves.

2012

“Oh, like hell.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no way that’s actually Captain America.”

“Why not?”

“Because he died in the Arctic in 1945. No one survives 67 years in the ice, supersoldier or not. Besides, can you swear, hand on the Bible and all, that you really trust our government? Trust them enough to not lie to us?”

“Well.”

“And the bullshit about him being out of the ice for like a year? Where has he been then? What was the point of pulling him out now? To say “Hey, look, Captain America supports us”? Because I think that’s exactly what they’re doing, since the criticism of the government’s actions has gotten so out of hand they need a distraction. The senators’ scandal? They want people’s attention somewhere else because they aren’t going to fire any of them, and what better way to do it than revive a national icon.”

“So they got some poor bastard playing Captain America?”

“Someone with similar powers, yes, basically. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to question it anyway because everyone’s absolutely floored about his return and all of the people who actually knew the real Captain are either on the verge of death or already six feet under.”

Bucky truly feels like he’s dying, so the girl on the subway is not very off the mark.

+

In the end, he doesn’t go to see Steve after all.

2007

He finds himself face-down on the ground, cheek pressed into warm soil, delicate hepaticas surrounding his aching body.

The sunbeams dance all around him, painting the nature around him gently golden. He pushes himself up, careful of the pain and prickling needles under his skin.

He isn’t exactly sure where he is. That’s new. He usually knows, he’s always briefed before the missions and he never gets off track.

It’s a forest. Maples, beeches, yellow birches, spruces. Early spring, late March, most likely.

He gets up, sways a little, decides it’s probably for the best if he stays down.

The birds have stopped singing.

Why is he here? What is this place?

Where is he?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

The sky’s blue. No clouds as much as he can see between the treetops.

There’s no clearing, just warm forest ground.

The birds start singing again.

Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission. Mission report? Where is it? Where is he? It hurts. Chest. Where’s his mask? It hurts, hurts.

He should be wearing a mask but he isn’t. He should be somewhere that isn’t here.

What was his last mission?

He sits there for a while, the sun raising slowly overhead.

There’s a knife in his boot and a gun in the sheath around his thigh. He has a backpack. Why does he have a backpack, what’s in there?

He takes the backpack apart. Two handguns, one of them loaded, a knife, a full bullet holster, an apple, a pack of instant noodles, some rope and bandages, a bus ticket, a half-empty water bottle, a journal. Sour gummies, matches and some Advil. Money, two hundred dollars and fifty pesos. Raisins. He puts the stuff back inside, then tries getting up again. This time, he’s lucky. He takes a few steady steps.

Okay then. He can’t hear anything besides birdsong, which is good, he guesses.

He starts walking. He doesn’t know where he’s going but does that really matter when he’s got everything he needs?

It’s a simple question because he isn’t quite sure what he needs anyway.

He walks and walks and walks.

His mind’s quiet, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing. Somewhere deep down he knows something’s amiss, but it doesn’t bother him, not just yet.

He continues his journey through the woods for three hours, the forest around him unchanging, and the warmth of the sun beating his uncovered head through tree branches. That’s until he makes it to an almost non-existent clearing between the trees with a small, square hatch door in the middle of it. An entrance to an underground bunker. He doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

Instead of going to investigate, he stays hidden between the trees and watches the clearing for two hours. There’s no movement except for overeager squirrels barreling down the tree trunks and loud screeching from the birds.

Mostly, he keeps his brain empty and thoughts at bay, but the concept of bunkers reminds him of something. He’s seen them before. Doomsday bunkers of the rich, the last refuge in case of a nuclear war, and survival bunkers deep in Eastern European forests, hidden under multiple boles and layers of moss and fallen leaves, practically invisible to the human eye.

But he is not human.

2011

Even though he’s only ever been here once before, Bucky knows the way. For the first time since deciding to come back to New York, Bucky feels steady. He’s got a purpose, and he knows where he’s headed.

Sarah Rogers’ grave taunts him. It sits in-between oaks that definitely used to be smaller, next to Joseph’s. It’s a place where the Manhattan skyline is still visible, and the grave looks kept - the groundskeeper is doing a good job.

He stands there and he can hear Ms Rogers’ voice in his ear. _“James, there you are. Where is my son?”_ she says, not angry, instead gentle and loving and understanding in a way Bucky doesn’t deserve. Why is he here, why is he the one who gets to do this, why is it him instead of Steve?

She wouldn’t be mad at him, though, not ever. She’d fake being exasperated and then pull him into a hug, kiss his hair. He was just as much family as Steve to her, she’d always told him. Sarah loved him, and she’d love him even now, after all he’s done, just as much as his own mother would.

Bucky places a bouquet of peonies he’d bought at a flower shop at the corner of Jefferson Avenue against the stone and steps back. Peonies used to be her favorite flowers.

For a while he doesn’t say anything. Then, a soft, “I’m sorry.”, for there’s nothing else he could say to ease the weight hanging heavy around his heart, not a thing.

2008

The first couple of weeks after waking up, nose pressed into warm soil and effectively sprouting memory loss, he stays at a shitty underground bunker. Or at least what’s left of the thing. He doesn’t even have to break in, the entrance is just closed. No security, no recent traces of life whatsoever. Just a cot, a blanket and a water tank. He finds an old dulled map showing the location of the bunker. A red dot. Vermont, for approximately 50 miles northwest of Montpelier. It gives him a place, but nothing else. He doesn’t know why he’s here and has no idea how he got here. But it’s fine. He’ll just stay and figure it out. But he’s tired. So, very tired.

He stays in the bunker for two weeks, in and out of consciousness. Night terrors visit him a lot, but they’re usually just flashes of color and voices and gunshots and screaming and blue eyes and painpainpainpain.

His memories don’t return.

He’s not sure he ever had them in the first place.

His body feels more exhausted every passing day. On the 15th night, there’s unidentifiable noise outside the bunker. He decides he wants to move on. The bunker is no longer safe.

2012

Steve’s dead. Steve’s dead. He’s been dead for the last 67 years, no more, no less. Bucky’s read the books, the articles, the conspiracies, heard the recording. He knows. He’s known for 67 years, no more, no less. They made him listen that night. Steve died in 1945, flying a plane into the Arctic. Not even a supersoldier comes out of that unscratched. Steve’s dead. DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD. He’s never coming back.

The man wearing Steve’s face in the newspapers, in the videos all over the Internet is not actually Steve. It can’t be. Steve’s dead. Right? Steve’s dead. Just because Bucky’s alive, it doesn’t mean Steve’s also here. Now. In New York. Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be. It’s not possible.

For 67 years Bucky’s known that the only man he’s ever loved is dead, that he’s never getting him back.

He’s not– he’s not, he can’t be.

Bucky takes a deep breath. It’s fine. It’s okay.

It’s not Steve.

2008

It’s a cabin. Absolutely picturesque against the backdrop of the colors of the forest and the iridescent, lazy waves of lake Champlain. The house itself is a small wooden structure, worn down but not yet falling apart. It looks completely abandoned, wilted wildflowers and grass almost three feet tall and the surroundings unkempt, like no ones been around for quite some time. Untamed wines are crawling up one of the walls of the cabin, and one of the windows is broken. No recent tire marks, just undisturbed Mother Nature.

Could be worse.

Bucky steps onto the narrow patio. The wood under his feet groans and he flinches, stopping to listen for any sounds. Nothing. Just rats under the patio. That’s fine.

The front door isn’t locked, but rattles on its hinges anyway. Bucky enters a tiny living space, covered in dust, untouched for years, stepping right into the kitchenette. A fireplace is the centerpiece of the room, in front of it lies a sofa, and the rug on the floor looks like it has seen better days. A door in the back wall leads into the bedroom. There’s a small bathroom with a shower, sink and the toilet.

After checking if anyone’s in the cabin, and finding no one and nothing but some spiders and dirt, he goes to the kitchen cabinets. In the first cabinet there’s both plastic and porcelain silverware: plates, mugs, forks, a few knives. In the second, a roll of garbage bags and some dust bunnies. The next contains canned beans, more canned beans and even more canned beans, but also packets of dried fruit and long expired Cinnamon Crunch cereal. Peppermint tea bags and instant coffee. After that he finds a collection of old Rammstein records from the nineties stacked on top of each other real neat, and a couple of empty vodka bottles.

Very fitting.

In the last cabinet, the nearest to the sink, there’s a box full of photographs. A few of them have scribbles on the back – the Sullivans.

This is as good as it’s going to get, he thinks. He might as well stay here.

1944

“I’ll take the first watch,” says Steve, letting the shield drop against a fallen tree trunk.

“Cap, you need sleep. Morita and I will handle it.” It’s Dum Dum, but all of them can see he’s practically dead on his feet. The rest of them are, too. The mission took longer than expected, spanning over a week when it had to be just four days, and they’re still technically on the field, the SSR base an another day’s worth of time away.

The only person who has a little spring left in their step is Bucky, the motherfucker. His position didn’t require hand to hand combat nor was he ever in the dead center of the fight. He’s doing okay for a soldier coming from a fight. It could be worse.

“I could eat a horse,” moans Gabe and literally falls face-first into the mud.

Denier laughs, drained.

“No fire tonight.” There’s so much longing in Falsworth’s voice.

Gabe groans. “I’d salute you, but I can’t raise my hand.”

“Alright, I’m taking the first watch,” says Bucky, and interrupts Steve before he can even start, “and no, I don’t want to hear any objections.” 

Steve closes his mouth.

Morita drapes his bedroll out on a patch of a-little-less-soggy ground. “Yes, sir, Mrs. Rogers.”

They laugh, breezy and a little out of it, and let sleep overtake them, rifles grasped tightly into fierce embraces, not giving two flying fucks about the rapidly lowering temperature and the wetness beneath their bodies.

“Buck, are you sure?” Steve sounds worried.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yes, you damn punk. Go to sleep. I promise I’ll wake you when there’s a fight.”

Steve huffs and turns his face away, smiling. He’s out cold in less than a minute.

They’d usually put two men on watch, but no one else would be much help right now and Bucky’s well aware of that.

After the second time around the perimeter, Bucky slides down to sit next to Steve. He looks at him, just a little. When Steve’s asleep, he lets himself look and just take Steve in. His crooked nose that’s been broken at few too many times, the little wrinkle between his brows that relaxes into smoothness when he sleeps, the sharp jawline covered in the beginnings of a beard he used to not be able to grow.

Steve’s changed. He looks different and moves different. He could break Bucky in half if he wanted to. That doesn’t mean Bucky’s stupid, sad, _wrong_ attraction has lessened. Not a fucking bit. If only, it’s gotten worse.

He thought he was hallucinating when Steve showed up at the HYDRA base to save him. Steve wasn’t supposed to be so tall or wide-shouldered. He was supposed to fit right under Bucky’s chin, that’s how he’d left Steve behind. He was supposed to be _home_ , in New York, away from hostilities, not marching in the smack middle of them.

The night Steve saved him from the HYDRA facility, something changed. When they were out of there, setting up camp with the other prisoners, he’d pulled Bucky close and just held him. With a little more protectiveness than appropriate for strictly best pals.

That got Bucky thinking. Messed with his head. It got him feeling disgusted with himself for liking it. For liking being held and kissed like that.

But they’re here now. Together. Their relationship is a joke, he’s constantly being teased about being Mrs. Rogers because he nags Steve, takes care of him like maybe a wife would.

He kind of likes it. But he also knows it’s wrong and dirty, knows he’s sick. For even thinking of something like this, kissing and touching another man. He’s sick, he’s sick, he’s sick. And Steve’s affections – he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about them too hard, that it’s probably Steve’s loneliness and physical needs kicking in. He’s away from agent Carter and all that.

The weight in his chest doesn’t let up. It’s jealousy, poisonous and suffocating, growing larger every day. He can’t have Steve. He knows that damn well. Even if Steve– even if he somehow reciprocated Bucky’s revolting feelings, in whatever way, they’d never have each other. It just isn’t possible.

Steve is going to marry agent Carter when the war ends. No one’s ever said it out loud, but Bucky thinks it’s pretty obvious, especially considering how they look at one another.

Right now it doesn’t matter though. He drops his left hand onto Steve’s unwashed hair. The man sighs but doesn’t wake. Bucky runs his fingers through dirty blond strands and cowers down to press his lips to Steve’s temple. He’ll take everything he can get, even if it leaves him a little broken.

He gets up for another walk around the perimeter.

2008

The Winter Soldier is used to feeling pain. He’s always been capable of functioning regardless of pain. But not now. Not now, not now, not now. He’s beginning to think he’s never known pain. His brain’s splitting apart – _are you fucking stupid we’re completely beat –_ he can’t breathe. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Пожалуйста, помогите мне. Please. Things he doesn’t know, memories that aren’t his – _blue_ eyes blue eyes a flying car the docks laughing frilly dress daisy like the flower sarah sarah sarah i’m sorry i’m so sorry may she rest in peace you fucking fairy i’m going to try to enlist no blue eyes i guess that’s the kiss off now GABE don’t be a twit buck you’re not going to die я его знаю – he screams into the night, throat raw, vocal chords straining, and just keeps screaming, pulling his hair, scratching at his eyes. He doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t– know, he doesn’t know, he wants it to _stop,_ he doesn’t want it, _no no no no no please no_.

+

A few months into his cabin-stay, on one very clear night when he can’t sleep for the life of him, he’s doing one-handed push-ups. He’s almost made it to two hundred before his flesh hand gives out and his body hits the ground with a dull thump. He’s a little woozy from strain, not having been eating very well. He forgets. It slips from his mind. He’s not used to eating, still. He half-expects his body to just… work, like it previously always had. Because in all his years of captivity, he doesn’t remember ever consciously eating. Not once.

The feeling of hunger helps, though. The headache, the complete numbness and exhaustion of the limbs, the white spots dancing in his field of vision. He feels like dying and it helps resurface memories, or whatever, of another lifetime, when the feeling was almost the same.

He’s completely sure now – his name used to be Bucky. But he’d also been called the Soldier. When he was the Soldier, he’d done bad things. It isn’t exactly clear _what_ and _where_ and _why_ , but it doesn’t matter. Not yet. He’s certain these things will start mattering once he remembers them. The faces of the people he met as the Soldier don’t linger in his mind for long enough for him to associate them with any names. One thing he knows for sure, though – he escaped.

He’d made it. He doesn’t know how. He remembers almost shooting someone in Buenos Aires, then forcefully boarding a commercial flight. Some flashes of what he assumes to be Venezuela and Cuba, what was he thinking, there was a lot of blood and apparently a cross country road trip. He knows he circled somewhere, lost them somewhere along the way because now he’s in Vermont, and they haven’t found him yet.

“They” being the nameless, faceless people he’d belonged to when he was the Soldier. There’s one name that stands out from the rest – Alexander. With the name comes dread he’s not used to.

Malnourished and dizzy with emotions his body isn’t capable of handling, he thinks he’s doing pretty okay. He’s alive, even though he has lost a lot of muscle mass. He can see the way he's shrunk when he looks in the remnants of a mirror in the bathroom.

He gets up from his push-up mishap and decides it’s probably for the best if he eats something. In the menu today: canned beans and more canned beans. He fucking hates beans. Instead, he reaches for the jar of blueberries on the counter. Pops a few in his mouth. He picked them himself, late into the summer, wandering around in the forest.

He’s been scavenging for food from the woods a couple of times. Berries and mushrooms and plants. Apparently recognizing different types of things and knowing what to do with them was a part of his brainwashing.

He pops a few more berries into his mouth. The stars outside blink languidly, and for a moment, the world is quiet.

1945

Bucky’s arms no longer hurt. Which is good, he should be grateful for it, but he isn’t, because he feels like he doesn’t have hands. Or fingers. Or elbows. Or biceps. Nothing. He can’t feel anything, he can’t fucking move. It’s like he doesn’t have arms anymore. That sends a fresh wave of panic though him. What if he doesn’t?

What if they’ve taken his arms?

What if it’s finally so cold his hands have fucking frozen off?

His thoughts are interrupted by soft German, inaudible from where he’s lying, strapped down and completely immobile. The voices come closer, and he catches a few words he’s picked up over the years, _“Wir wollten… und er reagiert nicht… so habe ich Befehle… ich will, dass Sie ihn verletzen, Doktor…”_ He’s kind of surprised he’s conscious enough to even put the words together. They’ve been keeping him under, so usually he’s very out of it. Today seems like a day something changes. Someone’s going to get hurt. It will probably be Bucky.

Running. And goddamn, the steps are headed straight to him. Fuck.

Doctor Zola steps into the room, face tense, carrying something suspicious, perhaps a radio device, and two soldiers in Nazi uniform beside him.

Bucky tries to fight, to kick, to scream. The gag muffles all of the sounds and the restraints keep him in place, cutting into his neck, the only part of his body he can actually feel.

Zola looks at him, and smiles, but it’s weirdly nervous.

The soldiers set the radio equipment up next to Bucky. It goes fast. A few cords and wires and the thing seems to be working.

_“Es ist so verdammt kalt hier,“_ one of the Nazi soldiers mutters, and sadly, Bucky has to agree.

Zola shushes him and pushes some buttons. Static. Then, voices. Familiar. Painfully familiar.

Agent Carter. And Steve, accompanied by the droning of a huge machine in the background.

Zola leers at Bucky. “I hope you’re ready, Soldier. Cherish it.”

Bucky tries harder, jerking his numb legs and screaming into the cloth in his mouth. Panic raises high in his throat. If only he could fucking feel his fucking limbs.

_“… it’s heading for New York… I gotta put her in the water.”_

It's Steve, his words choppy and muffled. What is going on? What is he talking about and why are they letting Bucky listen to something like this, why are they _making_ him listen to this?

_“Peggy, this is my choice.”_

What the fuck does that mean? What the kind of a stupid fucking choice is he going to make again?

_“Steve.”_

Steve, whatever you’re fucking doing, stop right fucking now.

_“I still don’t know how to dance.”_

What the fuck is happening, what the fuck.

_“Just be there.”_

Steve.

_“I’d hate to step on your–”_

Her what. Steve, please. Please.

No. Steve.

_“Steve. Steve? Steve?”_

No, no, no. What does that mean, what the _fuck_ does that mean, what the FUCK DOES THAT MEAN, STEVE. And agent Carter’s sobbing and Bucky’s screaming his throat raw and what is happening, Steve’s okay, he’s okay, he’s gotta be, Steve, Steve, Steve. Please, he’s okay, it’s okay.

His entire body jerks in pain, convulsing erratically, trying to tear himself up from the table, but he can’t, he fucking can’t. He wants to break that radio into a million pieces, because it’s not real, it’s not fucking real. Steve’s fine. Steve’s okay. This isn’t happening.

The Nazis watch him with an air of indifference, but they’re smiling, these motherfuckers are fucking smiling.

“And there we go,” says Zola. “The glorious end of your beloved Captain.”

Bucky doesn’t pay attention, he can’t think, can’t… 

He’s shaking so violently the table itself is rattling but he can’t feel it, he can’t feel anything, not through the fog in his brain.

“Put him under,” instructs Zola from the sidelines, a victorious smile curling the corners of his mouth upward.

2008

It’s cold in Vermont, especially during this time of the year. He’s used to it now. The constant chill beneath his skin, gnawing at his insides, the crick in his bones. He thinks of it as the sardonicism of life, to spend the rest of his days shivering, never finding any warmth, all while being known as the Winter Soldier, formerly based in Siberia in a fucking freezer.

He curls up in one of the borrowed blankets, face against the wooden floor, hair spread out around his head. He’s thought about cutting it, just to try to become the man whose silhouette he sometimes sees in the mirror, but he needs the cover.

He’s long realized he can never be fixed. That he’d be better off dead.

There will always be awkward gaps in his memories, places where there’s nothing but hollowness, blank and scary, even if he goes looking. There are things he remembers. There’s smoke curling upwards, into the star-filled sky, flames licking the tree trunks and the bodies of his friends, Bucky staring up, too, lying on his back, bleeding and cussing out the God he never believed in anyway. There’s the blanket his mother knitted for his eighth birthday, sharing it with Steve, cuddled up together, _warm_ , despite Steve’s shaking form. He’s not exactly sure who Steve is or was, but he appears once in a while, completely out of the blue, and slaps Bucky in the face. Figuratively. These little flashes of Steve – they make Bucky feel weird. Like Steve’s someone real important but he can’t fucking remember why.

The first time he could ever put a name to the face appearing in his mind was a few months back, after his visit to the nearby town. It’d been raining and he was completely drenched after running 19 miles from the town back to the cabin. He’d got himself out of the blanket fort he’d built and gone to finally check out the neighborhood, to learn it and keep a close watch of the people.

So when wild paranoia overtook him a couple hours into his little expedition, after a child got too close to him, it wasn’t a surprise. Even though he’d wanted to zigzag his way back to the cabin, he didn’t, too tired and malnourished, on the verge of passing out, and hoped that the downpour would erase the traces of his existence in the forest.

He just hadn’t expected a tiny, barely four feet tall girl to throw him off so much.

He’d passed out on the unwashed sheets of his blanket fort and when he’d come to, the raging storm outside had made him freeze up.

He was afraid of thunder. Or at least the person he used to be was.

Then and there, curling into himself, Bucky remembered.

A child who could’ve been him, whimpering into his sheets when thunder rolled over New York until it got so bad he’d cry.

“Steve?” he’d whispered, barely there, when a rumble cracked and the room around him flashed white. And then another body against his back, arms looping around him. Bucky would cling to the scrawny blond kid named Steve like he could save him and take away all the fear.

2013

The sun rises over New York as peaceful as ever, accompanied by the raucous noise of the waking city. Bucky almost can’t hear it, so far from the streets. He’s standing before Sarah and Joseph Rogers’ grave, yet again, shoulders slumped, hands grasping at the rake he’d borrowed from Alexis, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

After it was publicly announced that Captain America was alive, Bucky didn’t have the guts to come back here for a while. It threw him for a loop. Everything fell apart and he had to sew it all back together again.

It’s not real Steve. And even if it was, seeing Steve would be the last thing he'd want. Steve hates HYDRA, and Bucky was, maybe still is, HYDRA. And the odds of actually seeing Steve are way up near his parents’ graves.

He doesn’t let his thoughts take over and instead does what he came to do, beating the groundskeeper to the cleanup. He scrapes up the soggy leaves, shoves them into a trash bag, lights the candles and places jars full of flowers in front of the stones.

He lowers his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, again, like it's the only thing he knows how to say, eyeing the illuminated skyline of Manhattan. Then he leaves and promises to return before the month is over.

He doesn’t notice the dark figure who steps into his place in front of the gravestones after him.

2009

Bucky’s been to the local town before. It’s 19 miles from the cabin, further inland from the shoreline. Before going anywhere near the civilization, he mapped out the forest, learned to live there. He knew he’d have to do this eventually, though, go into town, because he’d finally realized his body couldn’t function without food, and picking berries wouldn’t keep him alive all through the winter. He’d also needed to keep an eye on his surroundings. When he finally started skirting around town, it was October.

The first time was a fiasco, and the next few occasions he just watched.

Then he started stealing. A newspaper from someone’s back porch, drying jeans from the clothesline, a wallet on the ground. People didn’t see or hear him and didn’t think much of the things lost.

Sometime along the way Bucky found 784 dollars stashed under the creaky floorboards of the cabin. It had seemed like a wildly big amount, the kind only the rich would have, but when he went to the store, the doors sliding open automatically, and looked at the prices, he’d realized that maybe things had changed a bit. Inflation had done its job and now, what had been a 10 cent burger once, cost over 3 dollars.

Overtime, Bucky became almost comfortable visiting the store and the farmers market. He didn’t spend money, not unless it was necessary, but he liked to look at things, because everything had changed so much. He added the library to the list of places he’d go to in a while.

Today, it is going to the store kind of day. He wants some plums. It isn’t a small town, thankfully, but it isn’t exactly big either. About 30 000 people. Enough for him to go under the radar.

He steps into the store. It’s chilly and the tiles are dirtied by people’s fancy shoes. No one pays attention when he enters, and he goes straight to the fruits&vegetables aisle, fast, and stalking near the walls.

A plastic bag and plums in there. One, two, three, four. Okay, five, six. That’s enough. He weighs them, takes the sticker. Maybe he should get some bread. Butter and orange juice don’t sound so bad either. The only fruit he actively avoids is the banana. Blame the absolute blandness of these things. New bananas truly might be the worst thing about the new century.

So Bucky spends a sawbuck on six plums, white bread, a stick of butter and a gallon of orange juice on sale, stuffs them into his backpack, and goes on his merry way back to the cabin.

He’s pretty sure at least one of the cashiers already knows him by face, and it stresses him out a little bit. He’s been trying to show up completely randomly to ease the suspicion, but these days, everything feels like a danger to him.

Darkness has washed over the quiet streets, soft murmur of the oncoming spring in the air. Almost non-existent drizzle’s slowly rinsing out the patches of snow covering the uneven pavement. The people he sees and successfully avoids, pay him no mind, completely oblivious to the fact that they’re passing the legendary Winter Soldier himself.

Sometimes he doesn’t feel like the Soldier; he’s just a wreck, a mishmash of Bucky Barnes, the Soldier and someone else in-between. Those moments are his favorite. He’s not drowning in memories, not wanting to be someone he used to be, not weighed down by sweeping regret. He can breathe when he’s not being swallowed up by the thoughts of things he has had to leave behind.

It doesn’t erase the pain of anything, including his left shoulder, but, God, does it feel good to, not exactly forget - he’d never want to forget - but to just let go of the burden, for a second there.

Bucky lowers down on one knee to pet a shaggy cat.

2010

_Steve,_

_We never even thought we’d be possible. Together, as anything else but best friends. For all it was worth, we spent our whole lives trying to lie to each other and ourselves and everyone else and perhaps the truth could’ve changed something. Maybe that night when I got wasted in a tiny picturesque town, lovely even in the midst of the end of the world, still wearing iron, and kissing a French man in uniform, crying on the walk back to camp, mind made up in my own drunken confusion, it would’ve changed something. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently had I said something, had Dum Dum not been talking to you at that exact moment. So this is on me. Maybe if I wasn’t a coward. But I am, still, and for that, I am sorry._

2009

On days he’s completely out of it, Bucky reads. There’s a sizable collection in the cabin, from little poetry zines to “Ancient Egypt Architecture”, from 2005 TV program guides to romance novels set during World War 2. Those are the ones that send Bucky for a loop. History books overall, in fact. They’re evidence that he’s from another time. There’s that instinctual knowledge – this is his war.

He doesn’t belong here. It’s 2009. He was born in 1917. 92 years ago, in New York City. People do live that long, but not in a way he’s lived. When he looks in the mirror he sees a man who looks maybe 33, not 92 like he should be. It’s not possible, it’s not possible. He shouldn’t be alive. He should’ve died in the war.

Knowing that he’s only alive because he was the Soldier fills him with a certain kind of horror.

Anyway, he catches up on history he missed out on. He reads all of the books he finds in the cabin, and goes to town to steal newspapers and visit the library. He learns about the victory of the Allied Forces, Captain America, the Moon landing, Cold War, Rosa Parks, Vietnam, hippies, MLK, Stonewall, the AIDS crisis, feminism, Captain America, the Singing Revolution, the fall of USSR, 9/11, the Iraq War, the Afghan War, Captain America, the ongoing global financial crisis, and the first black president of the States. Things have changed, alright. But not all of the changes are bad.

He learns to use a computer in the library. They’re weird things, and the Internet feels so unfathomable it leaves Bucky reeling for days. He can just. Watch videos from a small screen. And there’s information on everything. Howard Stark who?

The amount of information is a lot to handle. It makes him cry, sometimes, it makes him feel helpless. It’s not as if he’s completely new to all of this. He was the Soldier and the Soldier knew things, but it doesn’t matter, because the panic crawls up his throat anyway.

So in his journal, he starts making a list of things he knows. He tries to keep the sentences concise. It kind of reminds him of giving mission reports to his handlers. He knows he shouldn’t be writing any of it down, knows it’s a security risk, but he needs something tangible. To remind him he’s here, he’s been there, done that. 

_My name used to be Bucky Barnes. I was the Winter Soldier for an organization called HYDRA. They were Nazis. It is the 14th of September 2009. I am currently stationed in Vermont. They still haven’t found me. I’ve been free since 2007 (2006?). I was born in 1917. I fought in the Second World War. I was a sniper. I fell from a train in Austria. I have a metal arm with the Soviet symbol engraved in the shoulder. I’m almost sure I killed JFK. I do not know Alexander Pierce’s current whereabouts, but I will eventually find him. I am a monster._

He hesitates before the next sentence. _I harbored romantic feelings for Steve Rogers._

He stops and slaps the journal closed. He read about– he read about queer people on the Wikipedia page, how in the 30s homosexuality was considered a mental illness. He always thought of it as such, too, or at least was afraid that’s what it was. He was so scared back then.

At fifteen he'd realized that perhaps the way he liked Steve wasn’t exactly how best friends were supposed to feel about each other. But he’d ignored the thought because he also liked girls just fine, and that was more than enough. Daisy and Tiffany and Louise and Amelia. He remembers them. He fooled around with so many, and put Steve out of his mind. And it was obvious Steve didn’t reciprocate his disgusting affection.

Things had changed when they moved in together after Mrs. Rogers’ death, though. It was borderline painful to see Steve every single day, so goddamn close, yet so goodamn far, and try to ignore his overwhelming feelings.

He knew people like him. He knew there were places to go, if he wanted to. Sometime, he did, but instead of visiting the nearest queer bars in Brooklyn, he went over to Manhattan, in fear of being recognized. But he did occasionally slip up with Steve nonetheless. It became norm – tucking himself under Steve’s chin and just lying there for a few heartbeats, going out on dates without dames to eat ice cream, a lot of physical contact – shoving and pushing around to keep Steve’s attention on him, Coney Island daydreams of freedom from fear and burden, of running away, to somewhere they maybe could be together.

They revived the habit of sleeping together when it thundered, curling up in each others’ arms, under the same blanket. Bucky excused it with being scared, and for once, he wasn’t even lying.

He let himself have that.

Being queer used to be an awful, shameful thing that killed people when he was a teenager, and now he’s here, literally telling the world he was, perhaps still is, in love with a dead national icon who also happens to be his childhood best friend, writing the words out on paper.

He tears the sentence up, and watches it burn.

2009

The Winter Soldier dies on the 19th of October 2009, at 3:33am in a cabin owned by the Sullivan family on the coast of Lake Champlain, Vermont. The Sullivans don’t know that their property is now a tomb for the most nefarious killer of their time, and never will. The night is clear and so are Bucky’s eyes, staring out towards the open water, devoid of any emotion at all.

2013

_September 29, Washington DC._

_Visiting Sam, went out for breakfast and he invited me to join a VA session today. We’ll see._

+

_I’ve been thinking about dying a lot. It’s an interesting, almost attractive prospect of my future. Not as much as it once used to be, but still. Remember how my mother always whispered about sin? Said that suicide was a sin. But my sins run the course of seventy years. I’ve sinned the worth of a hundred lifetimes, what would she say about me now? What’s one more sin in an endless list of all the others?_

_When will I stop running?_

2010

He’s home. It doesn’t quite feel like it, though. Maybe it’s because he’s 65 years too late, or because he’s staring right into their former kitchen window.

It feels stupid and nostalgic, to be leaning against a wall in the shadows between the houses across the street – this is where Mrs. Walker used to live – watching the first apartment he shared with his best friend, and ever called his own.

He doesn’t really know what else to do but fade into the darkness and watch. The apartment building doesn’t look exactly the same, it’s been renovated, and people are going in and out. A stressed woman on the phone, speaking Spanish, and breaking into a run to make it somewhere in time. A family, a dark skinned mother with her two kids, ushering them through the door. Two men in their mid-twenties, a little tipsy, laughing, holding hands. They stop in front of the door for a moment to kiss. 

Bucky can’t breathe. 

It’s not like he didn’t read about the developments in queer rights throughout the years he was gone, it’s not like he hasn’t seen men kissing before, it’s not like he hasn’t been a participant.

But not like this, never like this. Not in the middle of the street, under the lights, where everyone could see. They always did it in hiding, in the shadows, and never talked about it.

Bucky watches other people’s reaction to the blatantly indecent public display of affection. He expects disgust, disapproval, violence. But there’s none. People don’t blink an eye, and just keep doing their own thing. There’s one guy who seems annoyed, but more about the fact that the kissing guys are blocking his way, less about the actual kissing.

So it’s true then. Things have changed. He read about it and googled it, but it never really clicked until this very moment.

If Steve was alive then maybe they could– no, Steve wasn’t like that, wasn’t like him. Steve was normal.

The light in their kitchen window turns on. It’s the two guys. Well, if that ain’t the gentle irony of life. Bucky backs away.

He can’t be Bucky anymore. So he chooses the next best thing – his name is James.

1939

Steve’s face is covered in blood. It’s almost usual. When Sarah died, he started getting into even more fights than Bucky thought possible, but the rage died down sometime over the next year. And that’s the reason Steve dripping blood cannot be called “usual”.

“Hey, punk, what’d happen to your face?”

Steve doesn’t raise his head from the cushions where he’s resting.

“Buddy, you still alive?”

Finally, there’s an answer. “Never been better.”

“Sure thing, Stevie, sure thing.” Bucky laughs and heads for the kitchen. He pulls out a rag, wets it, and goes over to sit next to Steve. “C’mere.”

Steve lets him clean the blood off. He has a black eye and two long gashes on his cheekbone, suspiciously looking like shallow knife cuts. Steve flinches when he lets his fingers ghost over the wounds. He gets up to gently smooth a band aid over the cuts.

“So,” Bucky whispers, soft, “you gonna tell me what’d you do?”

Steve huffs. “Nothin’.”

“You did nothing and someone tried to stab you?”

“Wasn’t tryna stab me, wanted to take my eye out.”

Bucky sits up straight. “What?”

Steve huffs again, but stays silent.

“Who was it?”

“Some grifter. Was troubling a dame, so I stepped in. I didn’t let up, so. Near that speakeasy on Richards.”

Bucky relaxes and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. “Why do you always gotta get yourself into shitty situations?”

Steve’s mouth tugs into a smile, genuine. “I think you know.”

Bucky turns and plants his face into Steve’s neck, arms coming to surround the scrawny man loosely. They sit in silence for a while. Then, Steve breaks it. “You’re early. How was your date, anyway? Dizzy with the dame yet?”

Obviously, he’d ask. Bucky mumbles something incomprehensible into Steve’s skin.

“Buck?”

It isn’t Steve’s fault Bucky’s screwed up. Steve doesn’t have to know he’s sick, and has been incapable of properly having fun with the ladies since the day he realized he had romantic feelings for Steve. That’s why he doesn’t go steady with any of them. He just can’t. “She was fun. Went dancing and we woulda done something more, but there was then the newspaper boy ran into us and, well, the war has begun, and she wanted to run home to tell.”

Steve grumbles in agreement.

“So you knew?”

Steve directs Bucky’s eyes to the table. New York Times. GERMAN ARMY ATTACKS POLAND; declares the paper, CITIES BOMBED, PORT BLOCKADED; DANZIG IS ACCEPTED INTO REICH. He’s already seen these same block letters.

“Huh. You think it’s gonna reach us?” he asks, fitting himself under Steve’s chin, against his chest.

“It’s likely.”

“You gotta promise me, Stevie, we’re never going to war. Got it? You gotta promise.”

“You promise first. You’re the one who actually could get into the army.”

Bucky laughs. “I promise, okay?”

2011

74 years later and a few miles over in Manhattan, in a nondescript warehouse owned by SHIELD, Steve Rogers wakes up to a baseball game on the radio too old to be real. It takes him exactly 44 seconds to realize something’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Пожалуйста, помогите мне. - Please help me.  
> Я его знаю. - I know him.
> 
> Wir wollten… und er reagiert nicht… so habe ich Befehle… ich will, dass Sie ihn verletzen, Doktor… - We wanted... and he 's not responding... so I have orders... I want you to hurt him, doctor…
> 
> Es ist so verdammt kalt hier. - It's so fucking cold here.


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bits and pieces of the lives they’re both leading + the insights of friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon???? idk her
> 
> cw:  
> \- mentions of religion  
> \- bucky jerks off but its nothing graphic  
> \- mentions of injured cat  
> \- pov switches
> 
> translations in end notes

**MY HEART IS A CEMETERY,**

**filled with the corpses of what was and what could have been**

Chapter 3:

_they made me an engine of war and now they reap what they sowed_

2009

_~~I feel weird writing to a dead man, considering~~ _

_~~Things went wrong on~~ _

_~~This is a letter from one dead man to another. A reminder of sorts – I am not who I used to be and you’re not coming back. Quite honestly, I still haven’t figured out who I used to be, either. But I know you.~~ _

_~~There’s a monument in New York now. Dedicated to you. A hero, a machine, a blind dancing monkey. In the end there you no longer had a choice, and now they celebrate that.~~ _

_~~God, I wish I was dead. I wish I’d died when Bucky did, falling, and the last thing I ever saw was you.~~ _

_+_

_Steve, I’m suffering._

+

_twenty two miles, seven grocery stores, not enough bread, maybe vodka for new years??, bread_

2010

His notebook has a page dedicated entirely to his victims, because every once in a while he remembers someone new. He doesn’t know their names, usually, so he just writes down what he can recall of their deaths. The words he puts on paper are a confession: taking responsibility for what he’s done. Honoring the dead, if you will, even though he has no right to do any of this. He killed them. They’re dead because of him, and he can’t even blame the Soldier for anything – he was the Soldier. He still _is_ the Soldier.

He has a page for his handlers too. He writes down everyone he can remember. Arnim Zola. Vassily Karpov. Alexander Pierce. Rumlow, Rollins, List, Svetov.

He knows where Alexander Pierce is. Washington DC, SHIELD headquarters. He knows where he is, but he doesn’t know why he hasn’t gone after him, still, or vice versa. Why hasn’t Alexander Pierce found him yet?

During his time as the asset, he’d gone rouge a couple of times, but they’d always brought him back in a few months. He’s sure it was the arm and the tracking devices inside it. This time they don’t seem to be working though, because no one’s shown up to get him for four years.

It isn’t exactly clear _why_ the arm would stop working properly. It has always hurt, even when he was the Soldier, a constant, just as the cold under his skin has been. He’s unable to recall anything that could have disabled the arm’s tracking system but god knows.

Whatever it was, he’s thankful.

2011

The first time Natasha takes Steve to the Smithsonian to see the Captain America exhibit, it’s raining. They walk side by side, eyes forward. Steve’s quiet. He’s been awake for almost 10 months and he still looks distraught more often than not, but that’s mostly because Natasha can see through his godawful mask of _everything’s fine_.

Natasha’s the one Steve’s the closest to out of the Avengers and she knows it. That in itself doesn’t mean they’re close at all, though. Steve seems so far away, putting distance in-between himself and everyone else, out of reach. A man out of time as Maria Hill secretly likes to call him.

Natasha worries. She’s not prone to becoming attached to people, considering her whole life’s been full of temporary associates, but she’s got a soft spot for Steve. He’s broken for reasons Natasha will never be able understand or even grasp the magnitude of, and she’s got no intention of trying to fix him. But offering companionship? That she can do. And apparently she can also drag him to see his own exhibit.

Cold drops are thrumming against the yellow umbrella in her hand.

They step in, and Natasha can literally see the way Steve shrinks.

But people don’t notice. The public doesn’t yet know he’s back and SHIELD’s intending to keep it this way for a few more months.

Natasha places a hand over Steve’s shoulder in a hopefully soothing gesture, and steers them towards the exhibit.

+

It’s beautiful. Patriotic. Red, white and blue. Blue, white and red. Symbolic, if you will. He sees the Howlies, what’s left of them: a grand gesture, putting their uniforms on a stand. They would have laughed. Falsworth, Gabe, Dum Dum, Morita, Denier, Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. He’s here. In uniform, on the pictures plastered all over the walls.

It’s hell.

Steve walked straight into his own personal hell.

He’s a fucking coward.

Natasha drags him from one glass cabinet to another, from one screen to another. Doesn’t ask questions, just lets him look for a while. Then she takes him to Bucky.

A shaky video clip, playing over and over. Them, standing together, leaning in and smiling at each other. They’d been back from a successful mission for a few hours, riding high on victory. That was the first time Steve let himself look at Bucky _that way_ in front of a camera. Those moments, they were sacred, and Steve hasn’t let himself think about them for 10 months. And now they’re bubbling up to the surface.

+

Natasha watches Steve watch the video of his dead best friend. Watches the way he leans in, jaw set, eyes wide, hand jerking at his side, like he wants to touch the screen, sink into it.

And she understands.

+

Steve isn’t exactly in the best shape, mentally.

Waking up from a dreamless sleep that lasted 66 years and walking straight into a nightmare – it was a shock. It still _is_ a shock, but by now, the novelty has worn off: all he feels these days is disappointment. Why didn’t they just leave him be?

He didn’t give Peggy the coordinates for a reason.

He was never planning on returning. With the Valkyrie, he saw a chance and he took it. ‘til the end of the line. That was the promise, and he’d intended to fucking keep it. He’d failed Bucky a million times already, fatally at that, and God help him, he’d wanted to make it right one last time. As it turns out, he didn’t quite manage.

He’d never thought he’d see New York again, but now he’s here. He’d also thought that seeing New York after the war would be an occasion to celebrate. It’s not. New York feels empty and too full at the same time, crowded and bustling, so alive while Steve is dead, soul devoid of anything that isn’t unlived, long-buried grief.

Time has kept moving, and the world with it. Everything has changed. Steve himself has changed.

Brooklyn doesn’t feel the same. Home, yes, but not entirely. A childhood home he grew out of, perhaps. He can’t settle, an omnipresent itch under his skin. He is no longer the Steve Rogers that left New York in ’43. Whenever he thinks of that, a sense of bitter loss overtakes him; that naïve boy he used to be – he never got to come back.

He’s moving to DC. He’s been living in the Stark Tower since he woke up, under the suffocating surveillance of both SHIELD and Stark’s technology. He’s had enough, so he struck a deal with Fury – he’ll move to DC, where he can have his own space near SHIELD headquarters, and in return he’ll work for them. He doesn’t really want to, though, but it’s not like they have ever given him a choice.

He hasn’t been back to Red Hook, where he used to live with Ma and later, Bucky, he doesn’t think he wants to see it, but visiting Park Slope, where Bucky’s parents lived, once upon a time, is almost as good as home.

He knows he’s got people on his tail. It’s fine. It’s a good thing they let him leave the Tower at all.

He wanders mindlessly around the familiar streets, not really paying attention to where his steps lead him. He stops in front of a building. It’s outwardly changed only a little. It’s a restaurant, _Luciole_. Firefly. It was Tiff’s diner once. He and Bucky, they’d been regulars when they’d had money for it. They’d sat inside, sometimes with dates, and spent their days laughing. Every now and then, Tiffany kicked them out for roughhousing, but they knew her rage was all pretend – she’d always welcomed them back.

Steve considers going inside for a moment. Just to see, to take a look at the place holding memories so fond they almost don’t hurt.

No one would recognize him – Captain America is dead. Steve Rogers is dead. Everyone who’s ever known him is dead. He can afford being seen, because no one expects a frozen corpse to step into a restaurant in the middle of a busy day.

He won’t, though. There’s no need to stir up even more memories he’d much rather swallow. He’s here for a moment in time, and that has to be enough.

Steve turns away, scurrying forward with his mindless journey through the neighborhood he used to know, blissfully unaware of one soup-soaked chef, and how things would’ve gone differently had he gone inside.

+

Sam Wilson leaves Bucky his phone number and full name before leaving the restaurant, telling him to call. Adrian whistles, and Alexis raises one of her eyebrows, grinning, while Bucky huffs and fights the blush rising in his cheeks.

That was new. Was the guy flirting with him? He has no idea. Why would the guy even flirt with him? He has no idea. Did he flirt back? He has no idea. It’s not like he’s never flirted with men before, he has, but not in that kind of a public setting. Not with random men who could be leading him into a trap.

He goes home zigzagging through the city, to do some thorough research on his new friend. He doesn’t find anything especially suspicious. Sam Wilson, served in the Air Force, was honorably discharged, now working as a VA counselor, treating vets for PTSD. So he wasn’t lying. Lost his partner in an accident. Resides in DC, works there too. Occasionally comes up to New York to visit his mother Darlene, and check out therapy group meetings organized by some of his former colleagues.

Apparently the guy wasn’t full of shit after all. So far Bucky hasn’t found any ties with HYDRA organizations either.

A week after Sam Wilson leaves the restaurant, Bucky gives him a call.

+

Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment makes him miss Vermont. It’s a suffocating room, with cold seeping through the cracked window frames, and only a thin mattress separating his still form from the creaking floor. Yes, it was fucking cold in Vermont too, but at least there Bucky didn’t have to listen to his neighbors have sex at ungodly hours of his sleepless nights.

Well, at least he knows what his neighbors are up to. They both work long shifts, one of them has insomnia and the other chainsmokes on the emergency stairs for hours on end. When they do fuck, the guy gets handcuffed to the already broken and wobbly bed frame and the girl rides him like there’s no tomorrow. They aren’t exactly quiet, and it makes Bucky antsy. Not in a horny way, not in the beginning, anyway. It’s just uncomfortable, especially when he can’t leave the apartment or shut his brain down enough to drown out the sounds.

He lies on his mattress, a hand curled around the handle of the knife under his pillow, wrapped into a blanket that doesn’t keep the icy air at bay, and listens to the steady creak of the bed next door.

It’s creepy. Invasive.

He acknowledges that, and on good days, tries to ignore his neighbors. As life happens, though, he’s only capable of overlooking the sounds on his worst days, when his brain’s in so much pain that the distinct sounds of sex are overshadowed by obsessive fear and vigilance.

Bucky’s libido returns on one of those nights. Well, not exactly. It’s a slow journey back home, but it starts on one of those nights.

He’s staring at the dirty ceiling, unseeing, a knife at his fingertips, trying to get his limbs under control to stop shaking, and his fractured mind to cooperate with him and return from the nightmare. The usual. In for seven, hold for ten, out for ten over and over. He breathes until he can see the crevices in the ceiling clearly again.

It was Steve. A lot of them are Steve. His nightmares, memories, flashbacks, fantasies – whatever they are. Steve’s always there is some capacity. Steve was important once, and will forever be, even if he’s not around anymore, won’t ever be.

This one was of the world burning, and Steve standing in the ruins of a church, Bucky covered in rubble and ashes at his feet, looking up at Steve when he threw his head back, laughing. It was nice. A familiar sound, a soothing one at that, one he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. But Steve didn't stop laughing, and Bucky could see his face morphing into something else, _someone else_ Bucky recognized.

He tried tugging on Steve’s sleeve, sliding their fingers together, anything to get him to just look at Bucky, but Steve was howling into the sky, voice laced with pure agony, until he wasn’t. The screams turned into shrill resentment, and when he finally looked down into Bucky’s eyes, Steve’s face had distorted into that of Alexander Pierce’s.

A wail clawed its way out of Bucky’s throat, and he attempted to scramble away, but his hands were chained to the ruins, he couldn’t fucking move, and it was so fucking cold.

Alexander Pierce towered over him, his manic screaming quieting into amused, derisive chuckles.

Bucky’s entire body convulsed in phantom pain, ice gliding up his arms, freezing him in place. He gasped on dry, prickling air.

Alexander pressed his fingers under Bucky’s chin, and made him look up.

“Soldier.” His voice was so familiar, almost reassuringly so, and it made Bucky sick to his stomach. “I’ve been looking for you.” It was then when Bucky’s eyes flew open, and he jerked upwards on the flimsy mattress, shaking.

Just a nightmare, just a little deflection from the usual repertoire. It’s okay.

Bucky stretches his metal arm out and grabs his backpack from the floor. He shuffles through it to retrieve his most valuable possession, or at least he likes to think so. It’s a worn journal he’s been keeping since he woke up in the middle of a field, surrounded by hepaticas. The front cover sports a red star, the same one he wears on his left shoulder. A sign of ownership, a branding mark.

Some pages of the journal are gone for good: he used to rip them out, just in case. What’s left purely consists of a mere stream of consciousness, letters with no address, lists upon lists, and scraps from newspapers glued together.

There’s one page from 2009 he doesn’t exactly like to look at. A torn cutout of Captain America taped to the paper, from a time color wasn’t for pictures, peeling off, but it isn’t Captain America. It’s Steve, just in uniform, with his helmet off, sporting a small grin. Next to it, illegible scribbles smudged with tears, _stevestevesteve ты его знаешь не забывай о нем please don’t forget him please you love him don’t forget him don’t forget him don’t forget him don’t forget him it’s steve you used to love him you still love him please don’t forget him._ The lines read too vulnerable even for him sometimes, he doesn’t know why, he wrote them. So, naturally, he only reads them when he’s completely out of it. Only when he needs a reminder that in his reality, Steve’s face never bled into Alexander’s. A little more pain never hurt anybody. After a while, rubbing salt into burning wounds brings comfort and tenderness life itself lacks.

A low thump pulls him out of his head.

The neighbors are at it again.

Bucky hasn’t been thinking about sex. He’s too distracted, way too under the weather. He’s pretty sure the last time he had sex was in 1944, a guy sucked him off in the barracks, but after that he didn’t have time to sleep around. The damn neighbors. They’re so loud. Why won’t they just let him wallow in his goddamn misery, huh?

So he does the only sensible thing a 94 year old man can do, and slides his hand into his pants, palming over his dick. It doesn’t feel particularly good. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything. No spark, no beginnings of pleasure that used to be there a long while back. It’s just like petting over his elbow, not especially simulating or arousing, just a touch of skin against skin.

He doesn’t give up, though, instead rubs harder. He’s not sure if he can even get it up, but it’s worth a try, right?

He does get it up eventually, heat finally igniting in his belly.

He thinks of Steve. Not even in a particularly sexual manner, but just Steve. How they used to be pressed together in between the sheets in Brooklyn, or on the bedrolls in the tent in the midst of the gunfire of war.

Bucky loved Steve then, and Bucky loves Steve now, easy is that.

And even though Bucky isn’t Bucky anymore and Steve is dead, it doesn’t matter, because Bucky loves him nonetheless.

He thinks of Steve’s mouth and his hands. He had an artist’s hands, with long fingers, skilled with a paintbrush and pencils. Later he had a soldier’s hands, big, calloused and scarred, proficient with a gun and a shield, perhaps a little shaky. Bucky loved his hands both before and after the serum. Steve almost never touched him in a way that could be read as anything too non-platonic. He hugged Bucky close, held his hand, twined their fingers together, petted over his hair, squeezed the back of his neck, caressed his cheeks and his chest. 

Okay, maybe the touching wasn’t always _that_ platonic. 

There was something between them, always, but neither one of them ever took it too far, or said anything about it, for that matter.

And oh, what Bucky would give to have Steve’s hands on him right now. Maybe instead of his own palm it could be Steve’s.

He comes with a barely audible sigh, and his body shaking with the intensity of his first orgasm in 66 years. Eventually, the muffled moans turn into carefully controlled breathing that turns into inevitable sobs.

2012

It’s the first time in 68 years Steve steps into a church.

As different as it is, it still reminds him of the time before. 1944, France. A month before Bucky died and the world ended, Steve’s entire life falling apart and off the train right before his eyes.

Back then, the church he’d gone to was cold and broken. Bombed to shreds. Steve had made an unconscious decision, sent the Howlies back to the campsite and stepped in, alone.

Three walls were the only things standing, the back opening into the forest, framed by sharp spikes of stone, and the rest of it a mess of wood and colorful glass, the altar and the once lavishly decorated benches all gone.

Steve had stood near the entrance and begged for forgiveness. For killing, and for being in love with Bucky. 

God had been awfully quiet that night.

A couple nights after Bucky died Steve had found himself in Vienna, standing in front of a catholic church, head hanging low. He didn’t enter, instead looking up at the imposing arch, and gave himself a promise he would never pray again. And he hadn’t, not even when the ocean had swallowed him whole.

God let him down. And maybe this was his divine punishment, his purification of his sin, but he didn’t fucking want it. He wanted Bucky back. He wanted to turn back time, just to let go of the cold metal under his hands and fall into nothingness beside his best friend. Just to die with him.

And now he’s here, the air so stagnant it hurts to breathe, listening to the deafening silence with his mother’s rosary and the dog tags around his neck, Bucky’s name stuck in his throat. The silence of a church no longer feels holy like it used to in his childhood, now it’s just hollow.

Now he knows he isn’t a sinner. Now he knows he was never sick, not in that way.

Loving Bucky was never a bad thing.

He lets his head fall back and it thumps against the wooden bench. It doesn’t hurt, and even if it did, he wouldn’t feel it anyway.

Why is he here?

To say something to a God he lost his faith in a long time ago? To ask for forgiveness or reconciliation? To grieve? He doesn’t know. He thought maybe being in a church would calm his rapid heartbeat, make breathing a little easier. But it doesn’t, it’s lost its charm, instead filling his already overflowing mind with bittersweet nostalgia and stinging memories.

+

Bucky finds her behind a ratty building in a trash heap. He’s sitting on the cold pavement, back pressed against the wall, head between his knees, desperately trying to get air back into his lungs, when he hears soft shuffling, and then little meows from under the lid of the garbage container.

In for seven, hold for ten, out for ten.

Again. And again.

More little meows. He’s going to help. He has to. Summoned enough strength, Bucky gets up, swaying on his feet, and heaves the lid off the container. A small tuft of white fur peeks out from between black plastic bags.

Bucky reaches his flesh fingers slowly towards the tiny creature and the meows grow stronger. A warm, damp nose presses against his fingertips. A cat. He likes cats.

“Hey there,” he whispers, dazed. The cat doesn’t answer. Obviously.

It’s small, a malnourished kitten, and its white fur is stuck in clumps, looking scruffy and neglected. There’s scarring on its side and the cat smells like trash. Well. It is swimming in the middle of garbage.

Bucky picks it out of the container. He tries to be careful but the cat lets out a fearful cry and scratches at his skin. He sets the cat on the ground and it slips under the container, limping, and keeping its round blue eyes cautiously on Bucky.

He squats down and offers his hand to the cat. That’s what he’d done back in the day, too, when he’d found a cat wandering around. Steve always rolled his eyes at him, but indulged him anyway, waited for him to be done with his affections, grinning. Bucky stops his train of thought. He’s not going to think about Steve.

He’s been hiding in his apartment since the night he spent with Alexis and Adrian on the roof. What the woman in the subway said on his way back to his apartment made him realize it’s probably better to keep himself away. Steve’s not back. It’s not Steve. People don’t come back from the dead.

That night was two weeks ago. The next day Bucky called Alexis and asked for sick leave for the first time. She gave it to him, sounding only mildly worried.

Bucky’s been staying inside. Not eating, not properly sleeping, not doing anything else, just sitting slumped against a wall until his left shoulder reminds him yet again he’s damaged. Tonight, claustrophobia and fear were suffocating him so badly he thought he was going to die, so he decided to get out. He’s ended up a few streets over in a lonesome back alley, recovering from a panic attack, with a shabby homeless kitten for company.

He sits back down and keeps trying to force air into his lungs while vibrant dots color his field of vision.

“You and me both,” he says to the cat.

He doesn’t know how long it takes until the cat sticks its damp nose into his flesh palm. But it does.

Bucky pets over its small head for a while, and the cat climbs into his lap, nuzzling into the warmth of his ratty hoodie. They sit together until the cat raises its voice again, reminding Bucky that it’s probably hungry.

Okay. So, Bucky has a cat now. He makes the decision without a second thought, even though he knows his apartment technically doesn’t allow pets. But good God, he’s not going to leave the little guy to die out here.

He cradles the little thing and tucks it into his hoodie. Fuck, the landlord better not be lurking around the apartment building.

Bucky takes the kitten home, and that night he realizes that he’s got a ward now and he can’t even fucking die anymore.

+

Radio silence. That’s what he’s been getting from Sam. He’s called twice and Sam hasn’t called back. The last interaction they had was Sam’s abrupt _hey something came up might not be available for a while hope you’re doing ok_. Bucky texted back _ok be safe_. Those were the last words they exchanged two months ago, and Bucky’s getting a little anxious. More anxious than he usually is, that is.

He’s been tracking Sam’s movement as much as he can, which, he knows it’s immoral, but goddamn, what the godhonest fuck is Sam doing in Romania?

He guesses it’s none of his business. No, he _knows_ it’s none of his business. But he’s worried. It feels weird being worried for other people. Like he’s being forced to keep himself alive for their sake. He’s got Alexis, Adrian, Sam and Alpine to care for. And maybe Steve who isn’t actually Steve, but he’s far enough, so Bucky can let himself pretend.

The newspapers and websites still haven’t let up. Or any social media platforms, for that matter. It’s been 4 months since Captain America returned to the public eye, after his apparent discovery a year before, and everyone’s still all over the place with their fucking CAP IS BACK! Whenever he goes on Reddit, there’s always a brand new conspiracy theory on how Cap survived near 70 years in the ice, or how he actually didn’t.

Bucky hates it. Captain America might be back, but Steve Rogers isn’t. He doesn’t need to be constantly reminded of that. All the grief Bucky previously thought he was learning to live with, and trying so desperately to bury, has been pulled right to the surface where it hurts the most, and now it’s always there, residing low in his throat, reminding him of everything he’s lost.

So he tries to ignore it. It’s not working very well, though. He almost obsessively keeps up with news outlets’ updates on the Avengers, just to catch a glimpse of the Captain and what he’s up to. He actively avoids Manhattan, and he hasn’t been to Mrs. Rogers’ grave in a while. It’s not like he’s worried he’d meet Steve there, that’s impossible. Right? But he doesn’t go, just in case. He doesn’t really go outside anymore anyway, unless it’s for work or to meet up with Sam once in a blue moon.

Sam’s become somewhat of a friend over the year and a half they’ve known each other. At first Bucky really thought Sam was flirting with him, was almost terrified of the possibility. His heart was torn up and he wasn’t the kind of a person anyone would ever want. Still isn’t. But Sam had reassured him not to worry the fourth time they met up, his bright smile edging into something wistful, telling him about the partner he lost not too long ago. “I can’t even think about putting myself out there anymore,” he’d said, leaning back against the back of the bench.

“You don’t– you don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to.” Bucky said, trying to be considerate.

“Nah,” Shrugging, Sam fiddled with his fingers. “I don’t mind. It ain’t easy to talk about, but, you know, ignoring the problem’s not gonna fix anything.”

They stayed silent a long while after that.

“I couldn’t do anything. I watched him die, and I couldn’t do a damn thing for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said and meant it. He’d been on the other end of that situation.

It’s still foreign for him to think that men can be together like that. They aren’t killed or sent off or even shamed. That’s just how it is. People are allowed to love. He and Steve, if they’d ever had anything besides a battlefield desperation for comfort, it could’ve been something. It would’ve been allowed.

He imagines giving Steve little kisses on the cheek and holding his hand. In public.

Sam and Riley could’ve had that.

Not hearing from Sam makes him anxious.

What if something has happened, what if something’s wrong? Because even though Sam is a pain in the ass, he’s also a friend.

Their camaraderie reminds him of Howlies at the beginning. When they’d gone through HYDRA torture, when they were back with SSR, presumably safe and Steve was there, with him. His friendship with Sam is like what he had with the Howlies in the early days – been to hell and back, even though their journeys are a little different.

He misses them, too. Got his hands on a few documentaries about the Howlies, one made in the late 80s, which had interviews with Jim, Dum Dum and Monty. He remembers seeing their faces on flickering film, hearing their voices crackle when they talked about the unit and went down the memory lane. That was the first time Bucky heard how he himself died. They talked about other things concerning him, too. About Captain and his Sergeant. Showed clips of all of them together.

The way they spoke, it was raw and real, and Bucky knew, for sure at last, that this had happened, that these men were important to him, that this was all _real_.

Steve is dead, Denier is still considered MIA, and so is Bucky, Dum Dum succumbed to cancer in 1989, a couple of months after the documentary was released, Jim passed away in 2004, Monty a year later. Gabe died recently, only in 2010 in London, with a different surname, but Gabe nonetheless. Bucky wishes he could’ve seen Gabe before he passed away. Told him that he was thankful for everything. He wishes he could say that to all of them.

+

Captain America and Black Widow sit at Sam’s dinner table, both breathless, but weirdly happy, coming down from the high of a chase.

Sam watches them with amused confusion. “So?”

They both snap their eyes towards Sam. 

“So, what?” the Widow asks.

“Y’all gonna tell me what’s this about or?”

“Well, we already did. Everyone we know is tryna kill us.”

“That doesn’t make it any less confusing.”

Steve interrupts them. “Disagreements with SHIELD management. Defied direct orders.”

“Again,” the Widow rolls her eyes. 

Steve shrugs nonchalantly.

The Widow gets up from her chair and offers Sam a hand. “Natasha Romanov,” she says, “nice to meet you.”

Sam’s shakes her hand. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Steve scoffs. “Neither one of you was that polite with me when we met?”

Natasha flips him off. “I live and breathe to piss off G.I.s.” She turns back to Sam, “I need to get cleaned up, where’s the bathroom?”

Sam points to the end of the corridor, then spins to face Steve. “What the fuck, man?”

“Yeah.” At least the fucker has enough decency to look guilty. “It’s true. We, uh, we need a place to stay, lay low for a little while. Yours was the first place that came to mind. Sorry?”

“Coulda called. Would’ve at least cooked dinner or something. I’ve only got scraps.”

Steve throws his head back in boisterous laughter. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Hey, I never said y’all could stay.”

Steve laughs harder. “Alright, alright. I get it.”

“So, you're not gonna tell me what happened?”

Steve’s laughter cuts off. He shakes his head. “SHIELD wants to use me as a poster boy for their damn war crimes again, just like the good ol’ days. And I’m not about to comply.”

Sam pulls the refrigerator door open and examines its contents. “Well, you kinda already are a poster boy anyway, if you haven’t noticed yet.”

All joy drains from Steve’s eyes, leaving only the exhaustion. “Yeah. I guess so. I’ll never escape it, huh?”

“Why do you wanna escape? When you could bask in the glory of being a national icon?”

Two tomatoes, milk, some white bread, a box of croissants James made and his Ma’s meat pie from his trip to New York two days ago. Those will have to do.

Steve doesn’t answer at first, instead staring at his hands. When he finally opens his mouth, his words are chosen carefully, tone retired, almost bitter. “Because I have never been a national icon. I am not Captain America, I’m Steve Rogers. When I– when I came to be, I thought I’d be okay, but none of it – the war and “serving my country” bullshit – was exactly what I was expecting. It still isn’t.”

Sam nods. He knows.

“I was just a pawn in the hands of the government. Propaganda. Even when I finally made it to the front lines, I was still someone they could use to fight their battles. I’m not saying I woulda been somewhere else, no. Nazis deserve to die, and I chose that fight. But it wasn’t “serving my country” what I did there.

“They want me to be a symbol all over again. I no longer want to be a symbol.”

They both stay silent for a little while, and the only sound between them is Sam fumbling with a knife to cut open the pie. Sam watches Steve shift in his seat. “That’s not all you wanna talk about, is it?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, noncommittal. “You ain’t my therapist.”

“But I do deal with counseling vets. Man, I’m dead serious. Lay your worries on me. Also, have a pastry.” Sam pushes the croissants towards Steve.

Steve takes one gingerly between his fingers. He bites and “Holy shit. That’s good.”

“A friend made them.” He’s gonna have to tell James that Captain America thinks his croissants are fucking wonderful.

Steve shoves the whole thing into his mouth, chews, then shakes his head. “I think I’m bisexual. And I–” he snaps his mouth closed, grinds his teeth.

“That’s cool, man. You got someone?”

Steve inhales very loudly, his eyes turning to stare at the floor, unseeing, shoulders slumping forwards. For a second he seems caught up in his own head, memories perhaps.

Oh.

Sam knows that expression. He knows what it feels like, he knows. He’s gone through the same hell before.

“It’s always like that.”

Steve raises his eyes and they betray his confusion and fear. “What?” he says, voice faint.

“Losing someone. It’s painful. Especially losing someone you were involved with. Romantically.”

Steve chokes on air, cheeks growing red. “We– we weren’t– like that.”

Sam gets three plates from the cabinet, places them on the table, then flicks the kettle on. They’re going to have tea. He tries to smile, pressing down the old feelings bubbling to the surface, grief evident in the lines of his face. He’s not going to cry. “Yeah, I get it, you know. The denial. Fucking horrible, in the military especially. Can’t even begin to imagine what it used to be like during your time. My partner and I, we never admitted to it, either. Now I wish we’d had. Because now he’s gone and I’m never getting him back, you know.”

The anguish lacing Sam’s words is so real, so tangible, he’s sure Steve picks up on it.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and it’s not pity on his face like Sam half-expects to see, it’s empathy. Apparently they have more in common than either of them thought.

“Don’t worry about it, man. It’s been a while.” And before Steve can say he’s over it, too, or should be, since it’s been over a few decades, like he’s surely going to, Sam interrupts him, “And I’ve had time to grieve.”

“We –,” Steve tries again, “okay. I was in love with him. Maybe still am.”

Peppermint’s good, right?

“Oh.” Might be a too forward question, but he asks anyway. “Who was he?”

“He– I–” Steve gulps, “one of the Howlies.”

Yeah, peppermint’s probably the best choice here.

The Howlies. They went over them in high school history but fuck if he remembers any of them. He was one of _those_ people – never had a Captain America phase.

But he’s seen at least some of the footage; he decided to refresh his memory after he met Steve on his morning run, and realized they could be friends. “Your Sergeant?” he asks, voice soft, unassuming.

 _Click_. The water’s ready.

Steve doesn’t say anything and that enough is an answer in itself.

Sam pours hot water over the teabags in three mugs. Polka-dotted, seagull-patterned, plain red.

Natasha chooses that exact moment to step into the kitchen, her hair dripping water. Sam has no doubt she was listening, too.

2013

Natasha doesn’t remember the majority of the time she spent in the Red Room. Little flashes of certain things, yes, but all of that might be fabricated for all she knows. She’s used to it by now. It doesn’t affect her work or her affairs.

But there’s one memory she’s confident is real – a man in the Room. Metal-armed, always masked, fast and strong and silent. They started bringing him around to train them when she was 14. They never won against him. Not even Natasha could do much to hurt him. That man never showed a sign of weakness or distress – he became something of a secret idol for Natasha. She strived for efficiency, power, resilience, impassivity, and that man possessed it all. They called him the Winter Soldier.

After leaving the Red Room, she thought about contacting the Soldier, but she never did, for one reason or another. Once she started working for the better cause though, she tried keeping tabs on the Soldier. As a hobby, out of morbid curiosity. Who was this man in the Red Room she remembered? Was he real at all, or just a fragment of her broken mind? At first the search had served harder than anticipated. He really was a ghost story. No face, no DNA match, no traceable past, no pattern of behavior, except for hyperfocus on his mission. Almost nothing.

Now? It’s impossible. The Soldier dropped off the radar in 2006, his last operation presumably in Buenos Aires. The thing is, no assassination with the Soldier’s MO took place that day. It’s not like the Soldier ever had a specific MO – he didn’t – but that was the point. No MO was his MO. A clean kill, no evidence, no witnesses, no further information. Natasha pulled all kinds of strings to get her hands on the documents dissecting a suspicious homicide with no apparent suspects a few years before Buenos Aires. Going through the files was a waste of time. Nothing of importance came up, just gory details. No new leads. Her search was fruitless. The Winter Soldier was gone, vanished off the face of the Earth with a legacy Natasha felt the personal consequences of. She presumed the Soldier was dead – put down by whatever organization he worked for, or someone else after he couldn’t finish the mission in Argentina, so eventually she gave up, filed the Soldier away into a drawer in her brain never to be opened again.

Until today it seems.

Because there he is, slumped against a wall, the Winter Soldier in his full glory. In the middle of a busy street, in broad daylight, just standing there.

She knows it’s him. She knows, but does a double take anyway.

A curtain of unwashed hair hides his face, a face _without a mask_ , a flash of metal of his arm peeking from his strategically held sleeve.

He doesn’t hold himself like the Winter Soldier used to. The Soldier stood like a killer, shoulders pushed back, a man on a mission. The man in front of Natasha knows how to blend in and make himself smaller in a way he won’t be noticed. His whole being is just casual nothing-to-see-here, and if Natasha wasn’t a spy, she wouldn’t have spared him a second glance. But he also exudes discomfort, his stance stiff with exhaustion.

Why is the Soldier here? Is he going to kill someone? Is he on a mission? Why does he look so different? Why is he fucking shaking? Who is he, exactly?

Almost as if to answer Natasha’s mental question, he turns, and she catches a glimpse of his face, and that makes the already fucking wild situation even more confusing. Because not only is it the Winter Soldier, but his face belongs to a man from the Smithsonian exhibits, a man Steve Rogers loves, a man 68 years dead.

+

Bucky’s there way too early. It’s a little less than an hour ‘til they’re supposed to meet up. He’s there to investigate and sneak around in Sam’s workplace. He’s been to DC before, on multiple occasions. HYDRA loved sending him to missions right under the noses of these people, especially after Kennedy. He doesn’t remember a lot from his Winter Soldier days in the city, but he does remember slowly making his way towards the Capitol building through Lincoln Park in 1974.

Sam’s VA counseling rooms are new territory. It’s a plain, spacious place, some chairs arranged in rows. Even though it’s all so formal looking, it’s got an intimate, welcoming feel to it, the people listening to Sam speak in front of the room, the majority of them looking comfortable in their seats.

Sam is talking about grief, losing someone dear to you in an active warzone. Bucky knows all about that, and instead of sitting down and listening, maybe even joining the discussion like Sam suggested a while back, he wanders around the building, noting all exits, windows, security cameras.

He moves like he isn’t there. It’s a habit he hasn’t bothered to get rid of, because quite frankly, he still doesn’t like it when people realize he’s in the room.

He skirts back to the group counseling room, where Sam is wrapping things up, shaking people’s hands, smiling a real smile.

He stands in the shadows near the back wall, but Sam notices him anyway, raising a hand to gesture for Bucky to wait, his grin turning even more lopsided.

Bucky watches the people Sam talks to. A black woman, her fingers entwined with another’s. They smile, just a little sad under the surface. A white man, slouchy posture and dead eyes. And the list goes on. Sam just is that kind of person. Easy to talk to, easy to trust.

When there’s no one to hug or shake hands with, everyone has either left or gathered around the table in front of the room to get their fill of cookies, Sam starts slowly slinking towards Bucky. That’s until he stops to talk to a handsome blond stranger.

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat.

He’d recognize him anywhere. He’d recognize Steve even through weeks of pain on end, his system stuffed full of drugs, thinking his Stevie was a dream his mind made up. He’d recognize him in hell, because he already has.

It’s Steve. Not some unfortunate bastard in a costume. It’s _Steve_. His Steve. Steve, who’s dead. Steve, who is not supposed to be real.

On that fateful day in Austria 68 years ago, falling, Bucky’s entire attention had focused on Steve. In his eyes, shock and fear mirrored Bucky’s own. His stance, ready to release the metal railing under his hands. The last conscious thought Bucky still remembers – _don’t you dare let go_.

Sam and Steve, their banter comes easy. Like they’re old friends, like they haven’t just turned Bucky’s entire world upside down.

Steve’s alive. He’s here, in the same room, just a few feet away.

He still hasn’t looked at Bucky.

He stands there, shoulders pushed back, oozing casual confidence and taking up space. He looks pretty. And different. His nose is still the same, a little crooked, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in a grin, light freckles dotting his fair skin, but he’s sprouting a five o’clock shadow, and the lines around his eyes run deeper. His smile doesn’t reach his gaze, he looks positively exhausted and worn-out. He looks like Steve, he is Steve, but something’s so clearly wrong with him that Bucky’s heart drops out of his chest to roll across the hardwood floor.

It’s Steve.

He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans and sneakers. 

Steve is alive.

He raises his hand to squeeze Sam’s shoulder.

Bucky’s paralyzed, watching them move in slow motion. That’s until Sam gestures towards the place where Bucky’s standing. Bucky snaps out of his panic and doesn’t wait around to see this play out. He needs to get out of there.

He presses his back against the wall and slides into the shadows right before Steve’s eyes rake over the spot he just vacated. Sam turns to look too, his brows drawing together, his mouth turning into a slight scowl.

Bucky can’t stay. Not when Steve’s here, not when Steve’s within his reach.

He could just… just touch him. Press his palm against Steve’s cheek. Maybe snuggle his nose against Steve’s neck, under his chin. Just to make sure he’s real. He sure as hell looked real. 

His chest constricts with dull ache. Tears spring into his eyes, his vision blurring at the edges. He can’t afford an emotional outburst, not right now, so he pushes them down, squeezing his eyes shut while he barges out the front door of the building.

Away, away, he needs to breathe. He needs space. Very, very far away from the faint but suffocating grief of the counseling room and even further from the man he’s loved since he knew what love was, and the guilt threatening to crush his windpipe.

So he does what he does best: he runs.

2014

Steve quite likes the STRIKE team Fury has assigned to work with him. They’re reliable and efficient, some of SHIELD’s best agents. Usually Natasha and Sam hang around too, unless they’re too busy with something else, like today.

A mission in New York, to investigate a presumed human trafficking ring leader that deals with pirated toxins to mutate the victims. The name’s Daniel Jackson. He’s been listed “worth checking out” by SHIELD, so obviously, they sent their poster boy to do the job. Natasha’s going to meet up with them after, in case they actually find something.

Steve’s sitting on a bench in Prospect Park, the unyielding July sun beating down on him, almost looking like a casual civilian, maybe the hoodie is a little too much.

He’s not a fan of his position. He keeps his eyes on the target, but he can’t do anything except for watching Jackson woo his date. Yes, the guy’s on a date in the Alice Recknagel Ireys Fragrance Garden, and Steve’s spying on him. No fucking wonder both Natasha and Sam are skipping out on this mission. He should just retire at this point.

Daniel Jackson and his date move on, leave the garden, and Steve trails them, observing them making themselves comfortable in a nearby café. He leans against a wall across the street and takes his phone out to pretend to scroll through his nonexistent Instagram feed. He’d like to complain. He would complain if Natasha or Sam were here, he’d groan about how _this is so fucking boring_ , but he doesn’t say anything. STRIKE aren’t his friends.

So he sits there, wallowing in self-pity, wishing he was somewhere else, maybe at Sam’s place, eating hot dogs and binging some random Netflix show, so he could shut his brain off.

He can admit he’s distracted. He hasn’t exactly been on top of his game in a long while. He’s been thinking of ditching SHIELD and maybe, just maybe retiring. He would, after taking rouge missions, he really would do it if– if he had someone to go home to. Natasha’s been trying to set him up with different people, but he can’t bring himself to actually look at someone else, even less _date_ someone who isn’t Bucky.

He lets his gaze wander with the excuse that he’s looking for people who could be watching the couple, too. He sees Rumlow on the roof of one of the buildings a block away.

His eyes land on a guy passing by. He walks with a barely noticeable limp, he’s got a mop of brown hair falling around his shoulders, and he’s wearing _gloves_. In this heat? What kinda crazy motherfucker–

Oh.

+

James Baines dies on the 31st of July 2014 in Brooklyn, New York City. The clock at Times Square says it’s 4:57pm. Bucky’s own watch is two minutes ahead. In Volgograd it’s 01:57, give or take two minutes. It doesn’t matter.

Steve Rogers’ firm hand catches Bucky’s left wrist and turns him around. 

Bucky’s brain short circuits so hard it stops working. 

Steve looks at Bucky, eyes full of desperation, lips curled downward, worn thin by grief. Steve. It’s Steve. His Steve, the one who would always throw himself headfirst into a brawl, paying no mind to the consequences. The one who promised to stay with him ‘til the end of the line. The one who makes Bucky’s heart somersault, even now, almost 70 years later. Steve.

“Bucky?” It’s barely there, hesitant and hopeful.

James Baines is dead but neither of them grieve, not yet.

Bucky Barnes breaks into a sprint.

+

Steve sees the love of his life falling out of his grasp again, sees him disappear into the crowd. He can’t let him go, he can’t let him leave, not this time. That’s why there’s not one but two supersoldiers racing across Washington Avenue. What Steve doesn’t see, however, is Brock Rumlow, grinning victoriously on the other side of the street, having run after the Captain, raising a burner phone to his ear, and muttering into the speaker, “I’ve found him.”

+

Bucky’s out of there faster than he’s run since that one time in Vermont. He runs, knowing Steve’s just as fast as him, probably faster, considering Bucky’s lost his form and hasn’t eaten anything today yet. But he was the Winter Soldier. Steve’s at his heels, he knows New York just as well. But those few seconds Steve lost staring at him play out in Bucky’s favor. Once he’s far enough, his old reflexes kick in and he blends into the crowd of loud tourists almost effortlessly, shoulders hunched, head down.

He doesn’t go home. He zigzags through back alleys, changes course multiple times and rises to the rooftops. He finds himself wandering towards the place he’s been frequenting for almost four years now, _Luciole_.

The windows are dark and he doesn’t have the keys.

He sits down on the backdoor stairs anyway. Then presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to keep the tears at bay. 

What the fuck.

He should’ve seen him from far away, should’ve noticed, but instead he had his head in the clouds. It was Steve, for fuck’s sake.

Steve. And Steve’s seen him now. _Steve saw him_. It’s been almost eight years of both running from and chasing his past, and the most important part of his life has finally showed up again.

He decides it’s probably for the best to return to his apartment. He needs to go anyway, Alpine’s there. And maybe then… he’ll talk to Steve. He’ll search him out and he’ll talk to Steve. He’s going to fix this, whatever it is, and he’s going to get his best friend back. Maybe. After almost 70 years of pain – maybe something could go right.

His apartment building stands silent against the setting sun. Bucky’s breath comes easier than it has in a long time. He’s going to talk to Steve, who really is Steve, and maybe they’ll finally reunite. Not in death like he’d once hoped they would, this is a hundred times better if it works out.

His happiness doesn’t last. He’s so out of it, he doesn’t notice the black van parked across the street, he doesn’t feel the circle of HYDRA agents tightening around him. He doesn’t pay attention to the man standing near the door of his building, smiling. He’s almost passed him, almost has his hand around the door handle, when Brock Rumlow opens his mouth to freeze Bucky in his place.

And even though Russian sounds uncomfortable coming out of Rumlow’s mouth, rushed and painful to even an untrained ear, emphasis all wrong, almost atrocious, he still gets the words out,

 _“Желание_ (fear shoots through Bucky, he tries to run, but halts in his hurry) _,_

 _ржавый_ (so it begins, and Bucky screams in horror, shrill and deafening, he knows what comes next) _,_

 _семнадцать_ (it takes Steve from him, hooks its claws into his mind and tears him away) _,_

 _рассвет_ (it hurts, makes his skin crawl, chains him to the ground, breaks him down until there’s nothing but red flesh and broken bones) _,_

_печь_ (this is his last fight, his last struggle, and then he’s stripped of everything, thoughts slinking away, he still has a soul but it doesn’t matter, it’s not his own) _,_

 _девять_ (Bucky Barnes ceases to exist) _,_

_добросердечный_ (a clean slate, nothing left but an ember of what he will become) _,_

_возвращение на родину_ (this is the homecoming, truly, long time no see) _,_

_один_ (he is a machine, he has no will, he was created to serve) _,_

_товарный вагон.”_ (the Winter Soldier raises from his cold grave).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ты его знаешь не забывай о нем. - You know him, don't forget him.
> 
> Желание. Семнадцать. Ржавый. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Товарный вагон. - Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.


	4. chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen and things are found out, and, in general, it’s a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i properly edit this? no
> 
> the last update might drag a little while longer than usual, the fifth chapter isnt fully ready yet. whoops. also sorry for this one : )
> 
> anygay enjoy lmaoo

**MY HEART IS A CEMETERY,**

**filled with the corpses of what was and what could have been**

Chapter 4:

_and when my hands are covered in blood, it’s okay, it’s just a casualty, and the rain will wash it away_

2014

He can’t see Bucky anymore. Steve can’t fucking see him anymore, there are too many people in his way. Airheaded tourists staring at buildings, running newyorkers giving everyone but no one in particular the stink eye, crying babies screaming for their mothers, _so many fucking cars_. He’s standing in the middle of Washington Avenue, but he doesn’t hear the deafening honking all around him, multiple cars swerving on the last second to avoid running him over.

He can’t hear anything, only concentrating on the fact that he can’t see Bucky anymore. It was Bucky. James Barnes. His Bucky. The same Bucky, who has been dead for almost 70 years. He knows that sometimes he sees Bucky where there is no Bucky. It’s usually just loud grief, and a handful of severe mental issues. He knows that. But this time – it was so real. It was Bucky. Right there, walking along the sidewalk, and he’d recognize him anywhere. But Bucky is dead. Bucky is dead and no amount of wishful thinking is going to bring him back. Right?

He makes it to the other side of the road, his mission with STRIKE forgotten, his earpiece carelessly hanging from his neckline. His team is probably freaking out about him straight up abandoning his mission, but he can’t bring himself to care. He saw Bucky. It was him, right? He wasn’t a hallucination?

Numb, he brings the earpiece back to his ear, and to silence the cacophony of voices on the other end, says, “I’m back.”

It’s Rollins who answers, “Captain Rogers, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just a little mishap. I saw someone I thought could be dangerous, but it was nothing. Resume your positions.”

Rollins sounds uncertain. “Sure thing, Cap.”

Steve returns to his spot, panicky and distracted.

It wasn’t Bucky. It _wasn’t_. It couldn’t have been. Bucky’s dead. He fell from the train in Austria 69 years ago. Steve saw him fall. Steve almost let go and went after him.

How the actual fuck could Bucky Barnes be _here_?

+

Steve marches into Stark Tower – the Avengers Tower –, lips pressed into a thin line.

Sam raises his eyebrow and Natasha looks up from the documents on the table. 

“What’s up, man?” Sam asks.

Steve stops in front of them. He doesn’t say anything.

“Steve?” Natasha tries her luck, slamming the documents in front of her closed, her back straightening, like she knows something has happened. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw Bucky.” He doesn’t know how else to put it. Maybe there is no other way to put it.

“What?”

“I saw Bucky. Barnes. My dead best friend?”

There’s a funny expression on Natasha’s face. “Oh.”

“I don’t know if I’m following?” Sam says, but Steve pays him no mind, his attention now focused on Natasha.

“What is it?” he asks.

Natasha holds his gaze, schooling her features into careful indifference.

“Natasha?” he asks again, his tone slipping from desperation to hostility. “What do you know?”

She stays silent, pressing her lips into a thin line. Steve can literally see the way her thoughts race.

Okay, time to change the tactic. “Nat, please?”

The silence extends. She exhales. “Alright. Yeah. You should know.”

Steve’s fists clench. So she has been hiding something. Something involving Bucky? What the fuck? Does– does that mean Bucky could– no. Better not to get his hopes up.

“I know I should’ve told you a long time ago, but… well, life doesn’t always work out in the most convenient way. I hope one day you have it in yourself to forgive me.”

“Nat, spit it out.”

She shrugs, looking him straight in the eye. “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years. Well, almost. He dropped off the radar in 2006.”

“What the fuck’s that have to do Bucky?”

The smile on her face turns sad. “I’ll get there, don’t worry. Anyway, I had some personal interest in him. He did manage to ruin a few of my missions. So when he vanished, I thought he was dead – someone had finally taken down the infamous ghost story. I stopped looking for him, until he showed up last year. Here in New York, completely out of the blue.”

Steve tries to ignore the heavy realization creeping into his brain, tries to push down the slow horror crawling along with understanding. 

No.

“He wasn’t exactly what I expected. A vicious killer, maybe, someone like me.” Natasha turns her back to Steve and stares out the window, her arms crossed. “Instead he was a man wearing a face I recognized from the Smithsonian, perhaps just a little older, a little more broken.” She turns to face him again. “Your Bucky – he’s the Winter Soldier. Or at least he used to be.”

“That– that can’t be. It’s not possible.” Steve tries so hard to deny it, but the protest sounds weak even to his own ears.

Fear and hope weave together in his mind. Because if Bucky is alive, then –

“Yeah, impossible. But so are you, so are the fucking aliens. Obviously, I checked. Didn’t believe it at first, either, but he did offer some convincing evidence.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No. I watched him. Which in itself was a feat, he’s real good at laying low.”

Bucky is alive and Natasha’s been watching him and she didn’t even think it was a good idea to mention it to Steve?

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” his previously quite calm voice raises to a shrill shout.

Natasha stays unfazed. “If he’d wanted to talk to you, don’t you think he would’ve sought you out by now?”

Steve flinches. He’s speechless. Natasha’s got a point and it makes his blood boil, makes his sight go wonky. Sam, who’s been watching all of this unfold from the sidelines with raised eyebrows, finally steps in. “So you’re saying that Bucky Barnes is a heinous assassin now?”

“Not anymore apparently. There have been no kills since 2005. And I haven’t noticed any particularly murderous tendencies. But I do admit, I’ve probably overlooked a few things. He’s a pain in the ass to track.”

“Well, fuck.” Sam inhales. “What’s he up to these days then?”

“Uses a fake name and works at a French restaurant in Park Slope. Lives in Red Hook with a cat. Nothing else.” Natasha hops on the table. “No, wait, I’ve seen him occasionally visit Evergreens. He’s quite a boring guy for an assassin, honestly.”

“The name, Natasha. What’s the name he uses nowadays?” Sam’s voice is weirdly tense.

Steve hadn’t even thought to ask.

“James Baines. Why?”

Sam’s face contorts into pure confusion and he sags against the table next to Natasha. “Well. Now _that’s_ a plot twist for ya,” he says, amused.

“What?” Natasha and Steve demand in unison.

Sam looks at them and shakes his head a little. “You didn’t do a very good job spying on him, you know. If you had, you’d know that James and I, we’re friends.”

“You’re what now?” Natasha inquires, her eyes suddenly filled with utter bewilderment.

Steve can’t fucking breathe, water’s slamming together over his head, he’s drowning, but his lungs aren’t burning, his heart is.

“I’ve known him for longer than I’ve known y’all. Been friends since 2011, I think?” Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “Thought he looked kinda familiar, but never would’ve put it together.”

“He was in New York in 2011 already?”

“Yeah. He’s visited DC, too, though.” He turns to Steve. “Remember when you came to visit the VA for the second or third time? He was the one I wanted to introduce to you.”

“He was there?” Steve’s throat is so dry it’s basically a desert and he’s pretty sure he’s hyperventilating.

“Yeah, man.” Sam’s gaze goes soft. “He was there, alright. Thought y’all’d get along. Guess I was right, in retrospect. Figures why he ran in the end.”

Steve’s got nothing to say to that. Bucky was there. He’d been in DC at the same time as Bucky. Sam had wanted to introduce them and Bucky had run.

He turns to Natasha, a lump in his throat. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Steve, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

She stays silent.

“Natasha, _why_?”

“He– he was in the Room.” She keeps her both her gaze and her voice level. “Earlier I said that I had personal interest because he’d ruined some of my missions. He did, yes, but there’s something else too. I don’t remember the Room, mostly, but I do remember a masked man they called the Winter Soldier. He sparred with us.”

No one ever talks about Natasha’s past. Steve doesn’t know anything about it except for that she was trained by the Soviets, worked for them, too, and now that she knows Bucky.

Sam gets there before Steve. “Hold up. That was at least 15 years ago, Nat, wasn’t it? He’s been– he’s been around for a long time.”

“50 years, like I said, more or less.”

“Fuck. He looks like he’s 30. He looks–” Sam stops talking, looking absolutely flabbergasted for a second, then bursts into a fit of laughter.

Nothing’s funny. Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to smile again.

“The first time we met I asked if he was a vet.” Sam grins while turning to look at them again. “He said he fought in the Second World War and I didn’t believe him.” He throws his head back and just _laughs_ , and yeah, Steve can see the irony in that.

There’s so much he doesn’t understand, there’s so much he’s unable to grasp, not when he’s barely had any time to process it at all. Bucky isn’t dead, Bucky’s alive and in New York. He’s been alive for at least 50 years to believe Natasha and he doesn’t look like he’s 90. Natasha lied to him – or concealed the truth at the very least.

He wants to– he doesn’t know what he wants. He just wants Bucky. And the truth.

Steve’s too exhausted to be angry, too drained to do anything but bury his face into his hands and try not to cry. It doesn’t go too well.

+

The floral wallpaper is peeling and scratched in some places. The window frame sports a few cracks, there are weird spots on the ceiling. The apartment’s completely bare except for a mattress with white sheets, a blanket and a pillow neatly set on top of it, and a bowl of cat food and water in one corner. There’s a pack of cinnamon crunch cereal and a neatly folded stack of newspapers on the kitchen counter. And the cat herself – she got up from her place on the bed the moment they entered.

She looks at them with judgemental blue eyes and they look back.

This is where Bucky’s been staying, but there’s a very strikingly obvious lack of Bucky.

“You sure he lives here?” asks Sam, looking at all the empty space around them.

“Yes,” Natasha points to the cat. “And that’s the proof.”

“It’s very… ascetic.”

Instead of listening to his friends bicker, Steve steps towards the bed and squats down in front of the cat. He offers his hand and a soft “Hi”.

The cat takes her sweet time sniffing his fingers, then decides him worthy and nuzzles his palm. “Hello,” Steve says, scratching behind her ear. Bucky always did love cats. Before the thought can start hurting, there’s a loud “Hmm” from the bathroom.

Steve gets up and turns around. “What?”

Sam sticks his head out of the doorway. “Dude has so many hair products, what the fuck. No wonder he always has absolutely wicked good hair.” He turns back to the bathroom. “Oh, man, that’s an impressive knife collection!”

Steve shuffles closer to go look, but a crack in the floor catches his eye. A little dent, halfway covered with the mattress. He slips his fingers under the loose floorboard and pulls. It doesn’t give. He shakes a little. To the left. The board comes undone.

It isn’t exactly what he was expecting. Maybe some more knives, maybe a firearm stash. Instead it is a little book with a threadbare black star on the red cover.

A journal.

It’s Bucky’s. Reading it would be an invasion of privacy. But. He opens it anyway. Just to see anything – anything to prove that this really is Bucky’s.

He opens to a page dated 3/11/2009, scratched black and blue, the handwriting small and tightly packed, the paper curling, clearly having been wet. Some of the ink is smudged, making words unintelligible. But he gets the general gist of it – a page about Captain America. 

Steve’s stomach drops. A picture of him in uniform, held by a red paperclip. He skims over the text, and the words get blurrier by every second –

 _~~I know him, I know him~~ _ _I knew him –_

God.

It’s from 2009. It’s Bucky’s handwriting, from 5 years ago.

Bucky is alive.

He doesn’t think about it when he slips the journal into his jacket, wipes the tears away with the back of his hand and joins the others in the bathroom.

Natasha looks at him and says, “You found something?”

“Nothing.” The lie comes easy. He can’t show it to them, he just can’t.

“Hmm.” Natasha raises her eyebrow at him, but doesn’t press. She steps around him and strips the sheets from the bed and moves the mattress. Steve’s glad he pushed the little stash closed, because when Natasha opens it again, it’s empty. The cat looks at her with slit eyes, growling.

After decidedly shuffling through all of the kitchen cabinets and all secret stashes they’ve found exactly two jars of homemade blueberry jam and an untitled VHS tape and a receipt for a flower shop in Brooklyn.

“There’s nothing here. The apartment’s completely bare.” Natasha says, her hand brushing her hair out of her face. “The VHS could be interesting, though.”

“Shouldn’t he be… like, here now? Since he ran from Steve?” questions Sam.

“Well, since you are such good friends, you know if he has a place he could hide out?”

“Uh, never mentioned anything like it,” Sam scrunches his nose. “The restaurant?”

“Maybe we should go and check, talk to the people there? Sam, you know any of them?”

“Or,” Sam suggests, “we could just… you know, do nothin’, let him and Steve sit on it for a while, until he maybe comes to us?”

“Yeah, probably. But there’s always a chance he ran for good.”

“And left Alpine? Nah, man.”

Steve snaps his head up at that. “That’s what the cat’s called? Alpine?”

Sam nods.

Huh. Now that’s just ironic. Steve stretches his hand to pet over Alpine’s head. She purrs and snuggles closer.

“He’s gonna come back.” Sam’s completely convinced. “Alright, how about we go back to Stark’s and see what the fuck’s on that tape, then go see if he’s at the restaurant?”

“Yeah, that could work. Steve?”

Quite honestly, Steve’s been a little out of it, but he agrees, dazed and with a weight pressing down on his chest.

+

It’s a documentary. The one they made in ’89. Jim, Monty and Dum Dum’s raggedy voices laughing on an even more raggedy tape. Steve’s already seen it. Natasha has, too. It’s only news to Sam who just shrugs and says, “Never had a Cap phase in my youth.”

They all watch it anyway, eyes transfixed on the grainy black-and-white shots of the war and a rickety voice recounting the events of Steve’s miserable life. Obviously, with propagandist undertones – just because the documentary was made in the years leading up to the end of the first Cold War didn’t mean that the Americans hadn’t made the damn thing.

 _The Captain and his Sergeant_ , Morita said with a sneaky smile, the one that always engulfed his features when he knew something the others didn’t. In this case, just how close the Captain and his Sergeant had really been.

Honestly, Steve knows they were never exactly subtle, but they also never did anything. Except for maybe sharing lingering looks, yearning for each other, hugging, touching, almost-kissing, sleeping together. On the nights Bucky was so fucking tired and stressed and only barely holding on to his act of being okay, Steve used to guide his face to rest against his own neck, and alright, perhaps that wasn’t exactly the straightest thing he could’ve done, but fuck. They were at war and he was in love. He still is, a good 70 years later.

Peggy looks into the camera, her smile more real than Steve ever saw while they were working together, and plainly says, _Even when Steve had nothing, he had Bucky. And that has to count for something, don’t you think?_

The documentary keeps the narrative of _best pals since childhood, nothing more, nothing less_ , but there’s a certain uncertainty around it, all thanks to Steve’s friends’ vague and dubious testimonies and stories. They’re almost making fun of the way history’s been shaped around Steve’s memory, subtly hinting at the falsity of it all.

Steve finds himself smiling a little. He misses them so dearly. He’d do anything to get them back.

When it’s over, Sam coughs. “Well, that was certainly something?”

“Sure was.” Natasha’s words are accompanied by a yawn.

“When are we gonna go check the apartment?”

“When he comes back.”

“And, excuse me, how would we know when that happens, exactly?” Sam looks at Natasha like she’s finally lost it.

“He’s not there. Who do you think I am, an amateur? I planted a camera before we left. He still hasn’t shown up.”

Sam deflates. “And if he doesn’t? At all?”

“Then we go to _Luciole_. Give it a coupla days, Sam.”

+

“He hasn’t been here for a couple of days. Hasn’t been answering his cell either. He doesn’t usually disappear like that and Alexis is worried. Even I am worried. Sam, do you know if he's okay?”

Sam groans. Fuck. That’s not good. Less than not good, even. It’s fucking terrible, if he’s being honest. James is not at home, or at the restaurant. Hasn’t contacted Sam or his other friends, apparently. Yes, Sam was the one to suggest giving James time, because god knows, he deserved it, but by now Sam’s worried. Call it intuition, he _knows_ something’s wrong.

He says bye to distraught Lizzie, promises to call when he hears something and steps out of the restaurant. He strides down the street with more confidence than he actually has and a bitter taste in his mouth.

“They haven’t heard from him,” he says when he gets close enough to Natasha and Steve, both of them sitting around a little wooden table in a café a few blocks down from _Luciole_. He sees how Steve hunches, his features closing up. He hates seeing his friend like that. He literally just found out that his best friend 70 years dead isn’t actually dead, and lost him again, all in the same breath. He hasn’t had any time to process or grieve or anything, really. Fuck, they need to find James. For Steve. Just to set the record straight, even if James doesn’t want to be with Steve anymore.

“We should track his phone,” he adds when neither of them answer, lowering his voice.

“Maybe he just needs a few more d–” starts Natasha, but Sam cuts into her sentence with newfound vigor.

“No. We should definitely get on the move.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Sam plops down into a fragile-looking chair between them. “I’ve been friends with him longer than y’all. Well–” he peeks at Steve, “at least in this century. I truly think something’s wrong. He isn’t anywhere he should be.”

“Hasn’t visited Evergreens either.” When both men look at Natasha, she just shrugs. “What? I got people on lookout.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You could’ve put them to work earlier.”

“No, see, I thought he deserved privacy. You didn’t stalk him either, did you? Even though you became an Avenger.”

“No! I didn’t even know he was… Barnes. He was– he is a friend.”

“Exactly.”

+

“Fuck.” Natasha raises her weary eyes from her phone screen. “Fuck.”

They’re 40 miles from New York, on an abandoned dirt road surrounded by the forest on both sides. Gray clouds are leisurely swimming across the sky, promising a downpour.

Steve’s kneeling in the mud, Natasha standing next to him. Sam wandered off a little earlier, breaching the treeline. Steve looks up at Natasha, his eyes a mix of scared longing and hesitant hopelessness. Natasha brushes her hair out of her face and continues, “That’s it. This is the furthest we can track him, at least for now. His phone’s gotta be here, with or without him.”

“Hey, guys?” calls Sam, appearing from between the trees. He’s waving with a small object. It’s Bucky’s phone.

“Fuck.” Steve wants to cry. He feels so damn helpless, so damn afraid, all the time.

Natasha, obviously, keeps her head. “Sam, give it here.” She pulls out a plastic bag. “We can run some tests, see whose fingerprints show up.”

Logically, Steve knows that they’re probably not going to find anything, but, god, does he hope they do. He wants to see Bucky again. Just for a moment, a nanosecond. He wants to ask him about the last 70 years, and then– if he wants to go, then he’ll let him go.

+

Somewhere in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, the sun has gone down. Even though the shadows of men dressed in tactical gear no longer slide across the walls of an abandoned-looking farmhouse hatching red paint, they don’t stop moving. They have orders, they have to be ready.

The falling silence of the night is accompanied by a few bursts of raucous laughter, boots stomping across warm soil and heavy breathing. There’s a flash of car lights and a sleek Mercedes pulls into the overgrown driveway.

The driver gets out of the car to open the door for someone in the backseat. An older man in a formal gray suit and glossy leather shoes steps out, right into a puddle. He looks around, dismayed, and stares intently at the farmhouse. The people have stopped moving around the house, fallen silent, except for a few muffled snorts when the muddy water splashes around the man’s ankles. They wait. A lone man pushes past them, strides almost leisurely towards the older gentleman. They talk, then move to the door of the farmhouse. The man in tac gear gestures the others to resume their previous tasks. Together they enter the house, Alexander Pierce and Brock Rumlow, side by side.

+

In the basement of the old, rusty farmhouse, the Winter Soldier is strapped to a cold table, his hands and legs pinned by leather covered steel, his neck held in place by a metal collar. He’s gagged and his left arm is propped higher than the rest of his body and angled away from him.

They shove steel rods in-between the plates, examine the wires, push and pull on the mechanics.

The Winter Soldier lies without complaint. They’ve already wiped him. His left temple is dripping blood.

Everything hurts and the light overhead blinds him. He doesn’t think about that, though. He doesn’t think about anything.

It just feels right, being here. Empty and _light_. Yes, there’s something nagging him in the back of his brain, but he pushes it aside easily. It doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to worry about. He’ll have a mission soon enough.

The door creaks open. Two men enter. One in tac gear, the other in a suit. The Soldier knows him. The handler. For some reason, his chest fills with dread. He swallows around it. It doesn’t matter.

They stop in front of the table, situated so that the Soldier can’t look at them, they’re just blurry silhouettes on his peripheral.

“Welcome back, Soldier,” his handler greets. The Soldier doesn’t answer, he can’t and he’s not expected to. The handler turns to the people in white smocks surrounding the Soldier. He asks, “Everything going according to plan?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be done in a minute. He’ll be ready shortly.”

“Good,” says the handler and retreats from the foot of the table to sit down in a chair near the door. The metal scrapes against the floor. The Soldier suppresses a wince.

A few moments pass in relative silence, only broken by the whirring of his arm and scratching steel.

“The– the plan,” says the man in tac gear, “what’s the plan?”

The Soldier’s handler’s voice is amused when he answers. “We finish what we started.”

The air’s thick with the unspoken question on the other man’s lips but he doesn’t dare open his mouth again.

They pull on the Soldier’s skin, examining it, they shove long metal rods into his flesh near his eyes and temples, clasp clamps where they’ve drawn blood to close up the wounds, tighten screws in his bones until he can’t feel anything but the dull burn of something that doesn’t belong. The Soldier doesn’t resist. They’re just fixing him. They’re just making him better. They’re just polishing him.

He knows he’s going on a mission.

The rest of the procedure takes an hour and 23 minutes.

When one of the doctors surrounding him finally removes all the wires and pins from his body and fastens his arm down against the table, his handler stands back up. The tac gear guy scrambles to follow him, although completely gracelessly, his movements clumsy with drowsiness.

The Soldier is secured on the table.

“Let him up,” his handler says.

“Sir, that’s not a good idea –”

“I said,” his voice acquires a dangerous undertone, “let him sit up.”

They unfasten the straps, but don’t remove the collar. The Soldier feels blood rush to his flesh hand but doesn’t rub his wrist, even though he kind of wants to. It simply isn’t necessary.

“Hello, Soldier.”

He still can’t answer, he’s still gagged.

“If you’d be so kind, doctor, and let the man speak?”

One guy in a white coat steps in front of him and pulls the leather out. He looks hesitant, he looks scared. A few drops of drool escape the Soldier’s mouth and land on his bare thigh.

“Now,” the handler pulls the Soldier’s attention back to him, “do you know where you are, Soldier?”

The Soldier can’t find his voice. What’s he supposed to say?

“Answer me, Soldier.”

“No.”

His handler smiles. “Then what do you know?”

What does he know? Does it matter anyway? “Underground. A room with two exits and nine people. Six have got their rifles turned on me.”

The handler cocks his head to the side and his lips curl into a smile. His eyes are as blue as the sky, surrounded by wrinkles. He chuckles, “So you’ve still got it.” Then continues like he didn’t say anything, “Do you know who I am, Soldier?”

“Handler.”

“Right. My name is Alexander Pierce and I _am_ your handler. I’ve got one more question for you, Soldier. Do you know who you are?”

“Soldier.”

“Nothing more, nothing less?”

The Soldier nods. Nothing more, nothing less.

Alexander Pierce, his handler, stalks closer, their faces just barely three inches apart. “The fist of HYDRA. You shaped the last century, you’ll surely shape this one, too.” He draws back. “Soldier,” he says and the Soldier listens very intently, “I have a mission for you.”

The Soldier straightens up. This is what he was created for. He is meant to fight and kill. His mission.

“There’s a man I want you to eradicate. His name’s Captain America. Does that sound familiar to you, Soldier?”

It does but it doesn’t. There is something, on the verge of his conscious mind, but it doesn’t matter how hard he tries to remember or seize it, he won’t reach. So he goes with the easier answer. “No.”

“Good. You will kill him. You’ll be briefed with the necessary information in a few minutes. From now on, he is your mission.”

+

“But why let him kill Cap? We could have it done much easier.”

“Rumlow, listen. Yes, I know it would be much more effortless if I let you deal with it. But that isn’t the point. Symbolism is. Forcing Captain America – the man who has worked so relentlessly to destroy HYDRA for more than 70 years – to his knees is. And who’s better for the job than _him_?”

“He already knows he’s alive, though.”

“Makes things even less complicated. So he’ll come looking for the Soldier. And he will kill him, and with him the rest of America will fall, too.”

+

Steve sits by the window, staring down at the hustle of the city with a certain bone-deep numbness and a heart filled with anguish. Sam’s making coffee a couple of feet away, humming under his breath. Steve recognizes the song. It’s from the children’s movie _Cars_. A tune way too cheerful for Steve’s gloomy mood.

Brock Rumlow. They found Brock Rumlow’s fingerprints on Bucky’s phone. Steve trusted Rumlow. He trusted the whole STRIKE team to watch his back and now what? To think that after Bucky escaped Steve’s sight and Steve went back to where he was supposed to be, Rumlow was gone.

The question still stands. _Why_ did Rumlow have Bucky’s phone, _why_ did he leave and where the fuck is he now?

Sam takes a seat across from Steve. “I can hear you stressing from there.” He offers Steve a cup of hot coffee. Steve curls his fingers around the mug, ignoring the burn.

With his other hand, Steve rubs his forehead. “Yeah. I– I don’t know what to do. To go after him? I want to, God, but I just keep thinking, what if Natasha’s right? What if he doesn’t wanna see me at all? He has been running from me for a while now. So I should probably just wait it out and –”

“Man, listen,” Sam takes a long sip of his own coffee, then almost spits it out. “Fuck, fuck, motherfucker, that’s hot, Jesus Christ.” He flaps around with his hands and breathes through his open mouth.

Steve smiles and rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”

Sam scrunches his nose and puts the mug down, eyes betrayed. “Alright, my failures aside, what I wanted to say was that James is, well, a great person. Not the kind who’d run without a reason. And yeah, things have changed now, pretty severely. But if you want my humble opinion, we should go after him. We wait ‘til Nat comes back, see if she’s found something on Rumlow’s whereabouts and then we hit the road.”

Steve lets his head drop to his knees. He’s still desperately grasping the steaming cup. He knows Sam’s right. That’s the clearest course of action, the only conceivable course of action. He can’t just sit by while his best friend is slipping through his fingers, either by his own means or someone else’s.

He refuses to think about the worst case scenario. _Bucky is alive._ He has to be. Steve can’t lose him again. If he does –

His thoughts are, fortunately, interrupted by Natasha. She moves across the floor like a dancer, but with loudness that indicates certain anger.

Sam turns to face her. “There’s some coffee for you on the table.”

“Thanks.” Her tone gives nothing away. She takes a detour around the table to pour herself a cup, then comes to them and drops gracelessly to the ground.

Three Avengers, the most human of them all, sitting on Stark Tower kitchen’s pristine floor, accompanied by the backdrop of the sundown setting the sky ablaze. The tension in the air is almost tangible.

Steve’s the one to break the silence. “What’d you find?”

Natasha leans back on her hand. She sips her coffee, stalling. Just as Steve’s about to snap at her, she decides to finally speak. “This is worse than we thought.”

Sam and Steve share a look.

“I went through some documents and data. SHIELD’s compromised.”

“SHIELD’s co– what? By who?”

Natasha takes a deep breath. “HYDRA.”

Silence. What? “What?”

“HYDRA’s infiltrated SHIELD. For a damn long time already, I’m guessing.” Natasha smiles, mouth curling into a dangerous grin. “We’ve got no one to trust.”

“HYDRA is destroyed, has been for more than 60 years –”

“Cut off one head and two more shall take its place.”

Sam, the only one thinking clearly, yet again, decides to open his mouth before Steve can huff something dumb back at Natasha, and asks, “How big’s the leak?”

She looks at Sam, suddenly slumping forward, tired. “SHIELD _is_ HYDRA.”

“Fuck. So– so Rumlow’s HYDRA?” Sam drops his head against the cold glass window behind him.

“You’re goddamn right he is.” Natasha pours some more coffee down her throat. “And trust me, it gets gradually worse from here. Our STRIKE team? HYDRA. Pierce? HYDRA. That one really nice lunch lady at the Triskelion? Probably HYDRA.”

None of them say anything for a second. Then, “Pierce? Alexander Pierce, the secretary of defense?”

Steve’s vision swims. It’s too much, way too much and he has no idea what to do with this information.

Sam shakes his head. “Well, that certainly is another layer of already fucked up shit we gotta deal with. But what’s all this HYDRA shit got to do with James?”

“The Winter Soldier is the fist of HYDRA.”

That shocks Steve out of his spiraling thoughts. Bucky is a what now?

Steve destroyed HYDRA, Steve made sure all the heads were cut off clean and then he burnt the corpse. How is it possible that any of them survived at all? How are they thriving now, 70 years later, in a place like SHIELD? And most importantly, how the fuck did they get their fucking hands on Bucky?

“I’m making an awful lot of assumptions here but,” Natasha says, looking Steve in the eyes, “from what I’ve gathered, James used to work for HYDRA as the Soldier, escaped them in ’06, and now they’ve finally got him again.”

“But Bucky would never become a HYDRA operative –”

“Brainwashing, Steve.”

“How?” His voice comes out quiet. He’s just so tired. He just wants to see Bucky. He’s used to stressful situations, sure, but god, not when Bucky’s involved. He’ll never forgive himself if he fucks this up.

“Again, just guessing here, but after he fell – they never found his body, did they?”

Steve shakes his head.

“HYDRA took Barnes after he fell and made him into the Soldier.”

“And how woulda that worked?”

“Barnes had had a shot of the serum, you know that. So he survived the fall and HYDRA, having already experimented on him, decided to create a brand new supersoldier, the kind on par with you.”

Steve drops his face into his hands. Natasha continues.

“Strong like you, indestructible like you, basically immortal like you, but without a mind of his own. Where you are capable of thinking for yourself, the Winter Soldier isn’t. He’s a weapon, a toy in the hands of that goddamn Nazi organization y’all were so keen on destroying last century.”

Memories and fear weave together in Steve’s mind like the intricate braids Louise used to plait when she wanted something to do on the road in-between the USO performances. Flashbacks claw themselves up his throat. _Bucky, strapped to a table in a dark room, the world around him humming with fire. The dread in the pit of his stomach when he found Bucky’s draft letter, he wasn’t going to bring it up. Three bullet wounds stitching themselves up faster than they should have healed, Bucky, alive, when he shouldn’t have been. Bucky’s odd distance after the HYDRA base. Bucky, falling, falling, falling. The snowy mountaintops surrounding Steve and the innate knowledge that he should let go._

Sam’s voice pulls him from his own personal hell. “And how the actual fuck did you just figure this out? In the last two hours?”

“All the pieces have always been there, but I– I’ve been looking in the wrong places. I’ve been chasing leads but I never backed away for even a moment to see the bigger picture. It makes sense.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve told you about Barnes.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” Steve shakes his head and gets up from the floor, swaying only a little. “We gotta go.”

Both Natasha and Sam swiftly stand up too.

“You said HYDRA probably got Bucky. So I’m guessing you tracked them down?” says Steve, tone weirdly conversational. He pushes the confusion and sadness down, buries them deep into his chest, where all his grief resides. He’s got time to feel later. Now he just has to get to Bucky.

“Lycoming, Pennsylvania.”

It lifts his spirits, just a tiny bit. He’s got a clear destination now. “Let's go hunt some Nazis.”

+

The Winter Soldier is waiting. Has been for the last 4 hours and 19 minutes.

The sun is slowly receding and the sky’s gone up in pink and orange flames in the west. The eastern front promises rain, a lot of it, with heavy dark clouds swimming across the darkening skyline. The wind has risen and the trees surrounding the dirt road on both sides rustle.

The Winter Soldier is conveniently perched on his ass in the middle of the road, legs akimbo, sitting in plain sight of anyone who’s looking. He’s in full body gear, but isn’t wearing a mask or his goggles. His shaggy hair whips around in the wind. He’s completely unmoving and silent. The rest of HYDRA soldiers are hiding in the trees and in the ditch. The Soldier can hear their irritated murmurs and fatigued fidgeting; they’ve got orders to not move until the Soldier gives them a _good-to-go_. They’ve also been there for nearly 5 hours, waiting on a ghost, and they’re just human.

Fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine, twenty one, one, two.

On the horizon, a small dot appears. The Soldier raises his chin an inch. It’s time.

“They’re coming,” he states, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, and feels how the previously frustrated atmosphere is replaced by sizzling bloodthirst.

The element of surprise is on their side. This isn’t supposed to be their meeting site – SHIELD would’ve preferred to knock heads at the farm where they could’ve collected evidence of HYDRA activity and used their own equipment against them. Sadly, no such luck.

It’s a Chevrolet Corvette. Stingray, if his eyesight isn’t deceiving him. Black and sleek and nearing with careless speed more fitting for a highway than a countryside dirt road.

The Soldier doesn’t move from his spot on the road. He’s the main event, they’re looking for him, he knows that. They can’t pass him and they _won’t_.

He’s got kind of a weird feeling about that particular mission. Something’s pressingly scratching in the back of his brain, something that he thinks is important, and it’s trying to get his attention, but that isn’t working out. It’s something to do with the guy he’s going to kill. Like maybe he shouldn’t – but he’s the Soldier, he’s going to end him anyway, he knows what he needs to know, the rest doesn’t, and cannot, matter.

The Stingray comes to a slow stop for approximately a 100 feet from him. The doors don’t open right away, they stay unmoving, just as the people in the car.

No movement, except for the howling wind and the whispering leaves.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven.

On the twenty first second, the car’s backdoor opens. A blond man steps out, and the Soldier inhales sharply. He can see the way the man’s hands shake.

The Soldier keeps waiting, forcing himself to take deeper and steadier breaths.

The man moves closer, one step at a time. He’s unarmed unless you count the shield at his side, and wearing a costume – red, white and blue, once bright, but now dulled by time. This is Captain America, the Soldier’s mission.

There’s a lump in the back of his throat and he struggles to swallow. He ignores it.

The man stills a few feet from the Soldier, and then they stare at each other for a while. He’s got blue eyes with tiny flecks of green in them. Familiar, not in a way that his handler’s eyes had been, but familiar in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down the Soldier’s spine, offering comfort. Who is he to the Soldier?

“Bucky?” the blondie says, tone all soft and hopeful.

Bucky? “Who the hell is Bucky?”

The man’s face contorts in emotion, and if he tries to push the grimace down, he fails spectacularly. He takes another controlled step towards the Soldier, but this is not how it’s going to go.

The Soldier whistles and all hell breaks loose. The man in front of him is knocked off his feet by a HYDRA operative jumping out of the bushes.

 _What a dumbass_ , the Soldier thinks. _Isn’t he always supposed to be on guard?_

The other people in the car have also finally decided to join in on the fun. A white woman with strikingly red hair and a black man, both armed to the teeth, throwing themselves right in the middle of the starting fight and not even looking over to check on their beloved Captain.

The Winter Soldier pays them no mind. The Captain is his mission, so he’s got to deal with him first. He hooks his metal arm around the Captain’s – who’s still not back on his feet, weird – torso, which isn’t an easy feat, the Captain’s _built_ , but the Soldier manages, if only half-way, and drags him off the road, through the ditch and into the forest.

The most bizarre thing about all of this is that he’s not fighting back. He just lets the Soldier take him, playing deadweight in his grasp. The Soldier shrugs it off. If he wants to get killed without putting up a fight, that’s his problem.

There’s a river a mile to the south, right through the forest. That’s where the Soldier’s going to drop the body.

A few hundred feet deep in the forest is when the first signs of life return to the Captain. The kick to the Soldier’s shins comes as a surprise, enough so that he loses his balance and finds himself face-first in moss.

He scrambles back up just to come face to face with the infamous Captain. Without waiting for the man to react, he brings his elbow up but the Captain blocks his hit with the edge of his shield, sending him back down to the ground.

Fuck.

He crawls backwards and reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh. So he isn’t bad at combat, huh. The Winter Soldier clambers up to stand, but instead of making another move, he breaks into a run towards the river, stumbling over slippery rocks and fallen trees, the sounds of the Captain’s steps following him deeper into the woods.

They move through the forest swiftly, exchanging blows and chasing each other, lunging for empty air more often than not, viciously trying to gain the upper hand of the fight. There's a strange weakness in the Soldier's legs, his knees ready to buckle, if only he didn’t have a will made of steel. Tree trunks crack and splinters caress his bare cheeks, leaving thin red stripes in their wake, and the clouds swim across the sky, threatening them with a downpour.

It’s getting darker and more suffocating by the second.

They reach the riverside and the Soldier puts a few steps between them. He extends his arm for the gun in his boot and points it at the Captain. The sharp edge of the shield cuts into his field of vision, sweeping the gun from his hand, and slices skin like a knife, and he can feel the blood drip into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He stumbles, loses his footing and falls down the side of the low riverbed, right on his ass. His entire gear seeps through within seconds and he ends up soaked.

He scurries himself upward yet again, ready to attack once more, but he’s stopped by a shout.

“Bucky! Buck, stop!”

His body obeys almost instinctively, even though he doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t know _why_. His hands freeze reaching for his knife.

“Bucky, I–” the Captain breathes heavily, and _drops the shield_. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

 _You already did_ , he wants to say.

His eyes are so full of hesitant hope, desperate to get the Soldier to listen to him, desperate for something to tell him that the person he’s looking for is still there, buried somewhere deep under the Soldier’s skin, that all his hope is justified, and maybe, just maybe, he’s capable of bringing him back.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t care about Captain America’s worthless hope. He lunges for the man and brings him down, just like he’s supposed to do.

+

The pressure on Steve’s chest doesn’t let up. He tries to cough, but sputters. His mouth is filled with metallic blood. He doesn’t open his eyes, he can’t, his eyelids are too heavy. He just wants to sleep, he wants to float away. If only the pressure would go away. If only he could breathe properly.

A spike of pain slaps him in the face so hard his eyes shoot open. That damn sure broke his nose. Again.

He looks up at the figure standing above him, tries to get his gaze to focus on the person.

It’s Bucky, so naturally, Steve tries to converse. “Hey, Buck, what’s going on?” he says, but it sounds like inaudible mumbling, thanks to the mouthful of blood and the broken nose. Also, Bucky stops him right there, without answering, and instead lands another blow right over Steve’s eye socket. His head jerks back, right into a pool of muddy water and it all comes back to him.

Bucky. Bucky’s here. Bucky’s dead, but he’s _here_. Trying to kill him. And Steve’s going to let him. He can’t fight Bucky. He can’t _hurt_ him. Bucky Barnes has been dead for the last 70 years, completely out of reach for Steve, and it doesn’t matter Steve spent the majority of that time in the ice, he thought Bucky was dead, never coming back, and he had to live the rest of his life miserable, grieving for the only person who’d always been there for him. And now, when Steve can finally see Bucky, can touch him, if he just reaches out, and it isn’t a hallucination, it’s real, Steve isn’t going to hurt him. If it means letting Bucky cut him open like he'd gut a fish – he’ll just lie back and take it.

Bucky’s face swims into his periphery. He’s pretty, all covered in mud, his hair sticking in every possible direction, a deep frown etched into his features, dead eyes, and Steve wants to cry. It’s Bucky, sure, just a little different than what he used to be, but his Bucky nonetheless, right there, with the same gray eyes surrounded by awfully long lashes, looking at him like he hates him. Steve loves him, he loves him so goddamn much, he’d give anything just to make this moment last forever.

“Bucky,” he whispers, and that’s the last thing he says before there’s a flash of a gun, and pain explodes behind his eyes, and the world no longer exists.

+

Captain America is the Winter Soldier’s mission. So, Bucky buries a bullet in Steve’s heart.


End file.
